East  Ltnne 


BY 

MRS.  HENRY  WOO  J' 


Chicago 
W.  B.  CONKEY  COMPANY 


FAMOUS   FICTION 

IN  UNIFORM  STYLE 


JANE  EYRE,  by  Charlotte  Bronte 
JOHN  HALIFAX,  by  Mrs.  Craik 
LORNA  DOONE.  by  R.  D.  Blackmor 
EAST  LYNNE,  by  Mrs.  Wood 
FIRST  VIOLIN,  by  Jessie  Fothergill 
SCARLET  LETTER,  by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne 
CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY,  by  R.  M.  Roche 
THADDEUS  OF  WARSAW,  by  Jane  Porter 
SCOTTISH  CHIEFS,  by  Jane  Porter 


CHICAGO 
W.  B.  CONKEY  COMPANY 


EAST  LTNNE 


CHAPTER  1 

THE  LADY  ISABEL 

In  an  easy-chair  of  the  spacious  and  handsome 
library  of  his  town-house,  sat  William,  Earl  of  Mount 
Severn.  His  hair  was  gray,  the  smoothness  of  his 
expansive  brow  was  defaced  by  premature  wrinkles, 
and  his  once  attractive  face  bore  the  pale,  unmistak- 
able look  of  dissipation.  One  of  his  feet  was  cased  in 
folds  of  linen,  as  it  rested  on  the  soft  velvet  ottoman, 
speaking  of  gout  as  plainly  as  any  foot  ever  spoke  yet. 
It  would  seem — to  look  at  the  man  as  he  sat  there — 
that  he  had  grown  old  before  his  time.  And  so  he  had. 
His  years  were  barely  nine-and-forty,  yet  in  all,  save 
years,  he  v/as  an  aged  man. 

A  noted  character  had  been  the  Earl  of  Mount 
Severn.  Not  that  he  had  been  a  renowned  politician, 
or  a  great  general,  or  an  eminent  statesman,  or  even 
an  active  member  in  the  Upper  House;  not  for  any  of 
these  had  the  earl's  name  been  in  the  mouths  of  men. 
But  for  the  most  reckless  among  the  reckless,  for  the 
spendthrift  among  spendthrifts,  for  the  gamester 
above  all  gamesters,  and  for  a  gay  man  outstripping 
the  gay — by  these  characteristics  did  the  world  know 
Lord  Mount  Severn.  It  was  said  his  faults  were  those 
of  his  head;  that  a  better  heart  or  a  more  generous 
spirit  never  beat  in  human  form;  and  there  was  much 
truth  in  this.  It  had  been  well  for  him  had  he  lived 
and  died  plain  William  Vane.  Up  to  his  five-and- 
twentieth  year,  he  had  been  industrious  and  steadv 
had  kept  his  terms  in  the  Temple,   and  studied  ;aic 


m6017{;9 


4  EAST  LYNNE 

and  early.  The  sober  application  of  William  Vane 
had  been  a  by- word  with  the  embryo  barristers  around; 
Judge  Vane,  they  ironically  called  him,  and  the) 
strove  ineffectually  to  allure  him  away  to  idleness  and 
pleasure.  But  young  Vane  v/as  ambitious,  and  he 
knew  that  on  his  own  talents  and  exertions  must 
depend  his  own  rising  in  the  world.  He  was  of  excel- 
lent family,  but  poor,  counting  a  relative  in  the  old 
Earl  of  Mount  Severn.  The  possibility  of  his  succeed- 
ing to  the  earldom  never  occuired  to  him,  for  three 
healthy  lives,  two  of  them  young,  stood  between  him 
and  the  title.  Yet  those  have  died  off,  one  of  apo- 
plexy, one  of  fever  in  Africa,  the  third  boating  at 
Oxford ;  and  the  young  Temple  student,  William.  Vane, 
suddenly  found  himself  Earl  of  Mount  Severn,  and  the 
lawful  possessor  of  sixty  thousand  a  year. 

His  first  idea  was,  that  he  should  never  be  able  to 
spend  the  money ;  that  such  a  sum,  year  by  year,  could 
not  be  spent.  It  was  a  v/onder  his  head  was  not  turned 
by  adulation  at  the  onset,  for  he  was  courted,  flattered 
and  caressed  by  all  classes,  from  a  royal  duke  down- 
ward. He  becam.e  the  most  attractive  man  of  his  day, 
the  lion  in  society;  for,  independent  of  his  newiy- 
acquired  wealth  and  title,  he  was  of  distinguished 
appearance  and  fascinating  manners.  But  unfor- 
tunately, the  prudence  which  had  sustained  William 
Vane,  the  poor  law  student,  in  his  solitary  Temple 
chambers,  entirely  forsook  William  Vane,  the  young 
Earl  of  Mount  Severn,  and  he  commenced  his  career 
on  a  scale  of  speed  so  great,  that  all  staid  people  said 
he  Vv^as  going  to  ruin  and  the  deuce  headlong. 

But  a  peer  of  the  realm,  and  one  whose  rent-roll  is 
sixty  thousand  per  annum,  does  not  go  to  ruin  in  a 
day.  There  sat  the  earl,  in  his  library  now,  in  his 
nine-and-fortieth  year,  and  ruin  had  not  come  yet — 
that  is,  it  had  not  overwhehned  him.  But  the  embar- 
rassments which  had  clung  to  him,  and  been  the 
destruction  of  his  tranquillity,  the  bane  of  his  exist- 
ence, who  shall  describe  them?  The  public  knew  them 
pretty  wen,his  private  ^'riends  knev/  better,his  creditors 


EAST  LYMNK  5 

best ;  but  none,  save  himself,  knew,  or  could  ever  know, 
the  worrying  torment  that  was  his  portion,  well  nii^li 
Iriving  him  to  distraction.  Years  ago,  b}-  dint  of  look- 
ing  things  steadily  in  the  face,  and  by  economizing, 
he  might  have  retrieved  his  position;  but  he  had  done 
what  most  people  do  in  such  cases — put  off  the  evil  day 
sine  die,  and  gone  on  increasing  his  enormous  list  of 
debts.  The  hour  of  exposure  and  ruin  was  now 
advancing  fast. 

Perhaps  the  earl  himself  was  thinking  so,  as  he  sat 
there  before  an  enormous  mass  of  papers  which 
strewed  the  library  table.  His  thoughts  were  back  in 
the  past.  That  was  a  foolish  match  of  his,  that 
Gretna  Green  match  for  love,  foolish  so  far  as  pru- 
dence went;  but  the  countess  had  been  an  affectionate 
wife  to  him,  had  borne  with  his  follies  and  his  neglect, 
had  been  an  adm^irable  mother  to  their  only  child. 
One  child  alone  had  been  theirs,  and  in  her  thirteenth 
year  the  countess  had  died.  If  they  had  but  been 
blessed  with  a  son — the  earl  groaned  over  the  long 
continued  disappointment  still — he  might  have  seen  a 
way  out  of  his  difficulties.  The  boy,  as  soon  as  he 
was  of  age,  would  have  joined  with  him  in  cutting  off 
the  entail,  and 

"My  lord,"  said  a  servant,  entering  the  room  and 
interrupting  the  earl's  castles  in  the  air,  "a  gentleman 
is  asking  to  see  you." 

"Who?"  cried  the  earl,  sharply,  not  perceiving  the 
card  the  man  was  bringing.  No  unknown  person, 
although  wearing  the  externals  of  a  foreign  ambassa- 
dor, was  ever  admitted  unceremoniously  to  the  pres- 
ence of  Lord  Mount  Severn.  Years  of  duns  had  taught 
the  servants  caution. 

"His  card  is  here,  my  lord.  It  is  Mr.  Carlyle,  of 
West  Lynne." 

"Mr.  Carlyle,  of  West  Lynne,"  groaned  the  earl, 
whose  foot  just  then  had  an  awful  twinge,  "what  does 
he  want.?  Show  him  up."  The  servant  did  as  he 
was  bid,  and  introduced  Mr.  Carlyle.  Look  at  the 
visitor  well,   reader,  for  he  will  play  his  part  in  this 


6  EAST  LYNNE 

history.  He  was  a  very  tall  man  of  seven-and-twenty, 
of  remarkably  noble  presence.  He  was  somewhat 
given  to  stooping  his  head  when  he  spoke  to  any  one 
shorter  than  himself;  it  was  a  peculiar  habit,  almost 
to  be  called  a  bowing  habit,  and  his  father  had  pos- 
sessed it  before  him.  When  told  of  it  he  would  laugh, 
and  say  he  was  unconscious  of  doing  it.  His  features 
were  good,  his  complexion  was  pale  and  clear,  his  hair 
dark  and  his  full  eyelids  drooped  over  his  deep  gray 
eyes.  Altogether  it  was  a  countenance  that  both  men 
and  women  liked  to  look  upon — the  index  of  an  honor- 
able, sincere  nature — not  that  it  would  have  been 
called  a  handsome  face,  so  much  as  a  pleasing  and  dis- 
tinguished one.  Though  but  the  son  of  a  country 
lawyer,  and  destined  to  be  a  lawyer  himself,  he  had 
received  the  training  of  a  gentleman,  had  been  edu- 
cated at  Rugby,  and  taken  his  degree  at  Oxford.,  He 
advanced  at  once  to  the  earl,  in  the  straightforward 
way  of  a  man  of  business — of  a  man  who  has  come  on 
business. 

'*Mr.  Carlyle,"  said  the  latter,  holding  out  his  hand 
— he  was  always  deemed  the  most  affable  peer  of  the 
age — "I  am  happy  to  see  you.  You  perceive  I  can- 
not rise,  at  least  without  great  pain  and  inconvenience 
My  enemy,  the  gout,  has  possession  of  me  again. 
Take  a  seat.     Are  you  staying  in  town?" 

*'I  have  just  arrived  from  West  Lynne.  The  chief 
object  of  my  journey  was  to  see  your  lordship." 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  asked  the  earl,  uneasily; 
for  a  suspicion  now  crossed  his  mind  that  Mr.  Carlyle 
might  be  acting  for  some  one  of  his  many  troublesome 
creditors. 

Mr.  Carlyle  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  the  earl,  and 
spoke  in  a  low  tone:  "A  rumor  came  to  my  ears,  my 
lord,  that  East  Lynne  was  in  the  market.  If  so,  I 
should  wish  to  be  the  purchaser.  What  does  your 
lordship  expect  for  it — at  a  rough  estimate?" 

"For  particulars  I  must  refer  you  to  my  men  of 
business,  Warburton  &  Ware.  Not  less  than  seventv 
thousand  pounds." 


EAST  LYNNE  7 

'^Toomuch,  my  lord,"  cried  Mr.  Carlyle,  decisively 
'^\nd  that's  not  its  value,"  returned  the  earl.  "These 
forced  sales  never  do  fetch  their  value,"  answered  the 
plain-speaking  lawyer.  "Until  this  hint  was  given  me 
by  Beauchamp,  1  had  thought  East  Lynne  was  settled 
upon  your  lordship's  daughter." 

"There's  nothing  settled  on  her,"  rejoined  the  carl, 
the  contraction  on  his  brow  standing  out  more  plainly! 
"That  comes  of  your  thoughtless  runaway  marriages. 
I  fell  in  love  with  General  Conway's  daughter,  and 
she  went  away  with  me,  like  a  fool;  that  is,  we  were 
both  fools  together  for  our  pains.  The  general 
objected  to  me  and  said  I  must  sow  my  wild  oats 
before  he  would  give  me  Mary;  so  I  took  her  to 
Gretna  Green,  and  she  became  Countess  of  Mount 
Severn,  without  a  settlement.  It  was  an  unfortunate 
affair,  taking  one  thing  with  another.  When  her 
elopement  was  made  known  to  the  general,  it  killed 
him." 

"Killed  him?"  interrupted  Mr.  Carlyle 

"It  did.  He  had  disease  of  the  heart,  and  the 
excitement  brought  on  the  crisis.  My  poor  wife 
never  was  happy  from  that  hour;  she  blamed  herself 
for  her  father's  death ;  and  I  believe  it  led  to  her  own. 
She  was  ill  for  years;  the  doctors  called  it  consump- 
tion, but  it  was  more  like  a  wasting  insensibly  away, 
and  consumption  never  had  been  in  her  family.  No 
luck  ever  attends  runaway  marriages;  I  have  noticed 
it  since,  in  many — many  instances;  something  bad  is 
sure  to  turn  up  from  it. ' ' 

"There  might  have  been  a  settlement  executed  after 
the  marriage,"  observed  Mr.  Carlyle,  for  the  earl  had 
stopped,  and  seemed  lost  in  thought.  "I  know  there 
might,  but  there  was  not.  ^ly  wife  had  possessed  no 
fortune;  I  was  already  deep  in  my  career  of  extrava- 
gance, and  neither  of  us  thought  of  making  provision 
for  our  future  children;  or,  if  we  thought  of  it,  we 
did  not  do  it.  There  is  an  old  saying,  Mr.  Carlyle, 
that  what  may  be  done  at  any  time  is  never  done." 

Mr.  Carlyle  bowed. 


8  EAST  LYNNE 

"So  my  child  is  portionless,"  resumed  the  earl,  with 
a  suppressed  sigh.  *'The  thought  that  it  may  be  an 
embarrassing  thing  for  her,  were  I  to  die  before  she 
IS  settled  in  life,  crosses  my  mind  when  I  am  in  a  seri- 
ous mood.  That  she  will  marry  well  there  is  little 
doubt,  for  she  possesses  beauty  in  a  rare  degree,  and 
has  been  reared  as  an  English  girl  should  be,  not  to 
frivolity  and  foppery.  She  was  trained  by  her  mother 
(who,  save  for  the  mad  act  she  was  persuaded  into  by 
me,  was  all  goodness  and  refinement)  for  the  first 
twelve  years  of  her  life,  and  since  then  by  an  admir- 
able governess.  No  fear  that  she  will  be  decamping 
to  Gretna  Green." 

"She  was  a  very  lovely  child, "  observed  the  lawyer; 
"I  remember  that." 

"Ay,  you  have  seen  her  at  East  Lynne,  in  her 
mother's  lifetime.  But  to  return  to  business.  If  you 
become  the  purchaser  of  the  East  Lynne  estate,  Mr. 
Carlyle,  it  must  be  under  the  rose.  The  money  that 
it  brings,  after  paying  off  the  mortgage,  I  must  have, 
as  I  tell  you,  for  my  private  use;  and  you  know  I 
should  not  be  able  to  touch  a  farthing  of  it  if  the  con- 
founded public  got  an  inkling  of  the  transfer.  In  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  the  proprietor  of  East  Lynne  must 
be  Lord  Severn — at  least  for  some  little  time  after- 
ward.    Perhaps  you  will  not  object  to  that." 

Mr.  Carlyle  considered  before  replying,  and  then  the 
conversation  was  resumed,  when  it  was  decided  that 
he  should  see  Warburton  &  Ware  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning  and  confer  v/ith  them.  It  was  growing  late 
when  he  rose  to  leave. 

' '  Stay  and  dine  with  me,  "said  the  earl.  Mr.  Carlyle 
hesitated,  and  looked  down  at  his  dress — a  plain, 
gentlemanly,  morning  attire,  but  certainly  not  a  din- 
ner costume  for  a  peer's  table. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  said  the  earl;  "we  shall  be 
quite  alone,  except  my  daughter.  Mrs.  Vane,  of 
Castle  Marling,  is  staying  with  us.  She  came  up  to 
present  my  child  at  the  last  drawing-room,  but  I  think 
I   heard  something  about  her  dining  out  to-day.       If 


EAST  LYNNE  ,, 

not,  we  will  have  it  by  ourselves  here.     Oblige  me  by 
touching  the  bell,  Mr.  Carlyle." 

The  servant  entered.  "Inquire  whether  Mrs.  Vane 
dines  at  home,"  said  the  earl. 

"Mrs.  Vane  dines  out,  my  lord,"  was  the  man's 
immediate  reply.     "The  carriage  is  at  the  door  now. " 

^"Very  well.  Mr.  Carlyle  remains."  At  seven 
o'clock  the  dinner  was  announced,  and  the  carl  wheeled 
into  the  adjoining  room.  As  he  and  Mr.  Carlyle 
entered  it  at  one  door,  some  one  else  came  in  by  the 
opposite  one.  Who— what— was  it?  Mr.  Carlyle 
looked,  not  quite  sure  whether  it  was  a  human  being 
— he  almost  thought  it  more  like  an  angel. 

A  light,  graceful,  girlish  form,  a  face  of  surpassing 
beauty,  beauty  that  is  rarely  seen,  save  from  the  imag- 
ination of  a  painter,  dark  shining  curls  falling  on  her 
neck  and  shoulders,  smooth  as  a  child's;  fair,  delicate 
arms  decorated  with  pearls,  and  a  flowing  dress  of 
costly  white  lace.  Altogether  the  vision  did  indeed 
look  to  the  lawyer  as  one  from  a  fairer  world  than  this. 

"My  daughter,  Mr.  Carlyle,  the  Lady  Isabel." 

They  took  their  seats  at  the  table.  Lord  Mount 
Severn  at  its  head,  in  spite  of  his  gout  and  his  h:)nt- 
stool.  And  the  young  lady  and  ]Mr.  Carlyle  opposite 
each  other.  Mr.  Carlyle  had  not  deemed  himself  a 
particular  admirer  of  woman's  beauty,  but  the  extraor- 
dinary loveliness  of  the  young  girl  before  him  nearly 
took  away  his  senses  and  his  self-possession.  Yet  it 
was  not  so  much  the  perfect  contour  of  the  exquisite 
features  that  struck  him,  the  rich  damask  of  the  deli- 
cate cheek,  or  the  luxuriant  falling  hair;  no,  it  was 
the  sweet  expression  of  the  soft  dark  eyes.  Never  in 
his  life  had  he  seen  eyes  so  pleasing.  lie  could  not 
keep  his  gaze  from  her,  and  he  became  conscious,  as 
he  grew  more  familiar  with  her  face,  that  there  was 
in  its  character  a  sad,  sorrowful  look;  only  at  times 
was  it  to  be  noticed,  when  the  features  were  in  repose. 
and  it  lay  chiefly  in  the  very  eyes  he  was  adm:': 
Never  does  this  unconsciously  mournful  exj)rc 
exist  but  it  is  a  sure  index  of  sorrow  and  suffcr::ig; 


10  EAST  LYNNE 

but  Mn  Carlyle  understood  it  not.  And  who  could 
connect  sorrow  with  the  anticipated  brilliant  future  of 
Isabel  Vane? 

''Isabel  "  observed  the  earl,  "you  are  dressed. 

''Yes,  papa.  Not  to  keep  old  Mrs.  Levison  waiting 
tea  She  likes  to  take  it  early,  and  I  know  Mrs.  Vane 
must  have  kept  her  waiting  dinner.  It  was  half-past 
six  when  she  drove  from  here." 

"I  hope  you  will  not  be  late  to-night,  Isabel. 

"It  depends  upon  Mrs.  Vane." 

"Then  I  am  sure  you  will  be.  When  the  young 
ladies  in  this  fashionable  v/orld  of  ours  turn  night  into 
day,  it  is  a  bad  thing  for  their  roses.  What  do  you 
say,' Mr.  Carlyle?" 

Mr  Carlyle  glanced  at  the  roses  on  the  cheeks  oppo- 
site to  him ;  they  looked  too  fresh  and  bright  to  fade 
lightly.  At  the  conclusion  of  dinner  a  maid  entered 
the  room  v/ith  a  white  cashmere  mantle,  placing  it 
over  the  shoulders  of  her  young  lady,  as  she  said  the 
carriage  was  waiting.  .  ^      ^  n. 

Lady  Isabel  advanced  to  the  earl.       Good-by,  papa. 

'*Good-night,  my  love,"  he  answered,  drawing  her 
toward  him,  and  kissing  her  sweet  face.  "Tell  Mrs. 
Vane  I  will  not  have  you  kept  out  till  morning  hours. 
You  are  but  a  child  yet.  Mr.  Carlyle,  will  you  ring? 
I    am  debarred    from     seeing    my    daughter    to  the 

carriage."  ..  ^     -,     t     i    i      -n 

"If  your  lordship  will  allow  me— if  Lady  Isabel  will 
pardon  the  attendance  of  one  little  used  to  wait  upon 
young  ladies,  I  shall  be  proud  to  see  her  to  her  car- 
riage,"  was  the  somewhat  confused  answer  of  Mr. 
Carlyle  as  he  touched  the  bell. 

The  earl  thanked  him,  and  the  young  lady  smiled, 
and  Mr.  Carlyle  conducted  her  down  the  broad,  lighted 
staircase,  and  stood  bareheaded  by  the  door  of  the  lux- 
urious chariot,  and  handed  her  in.  She  put  out  her 
hand  in  her  frank,  pleasant  manner,  as  she  wished 
him  good-night.  The  carriage  rolled  on  its  way,  and 
Mr  Carlyle  returned  to  the  earl.  "Well,  is  she  not  a 
handsome  girl?"  he  demanded.      "Handsome   is  not 


EAST  LYNNE  U 

the  word  for  beauty  such  as  hers,"  was  Mr.  Carlyle's 
reply,  in  a  low,  warm  tone.  "I  never  saw  a  face  half 
so  beautiful." 

"She  caused  quite  a  sensation  at  the  drawin^^-room. 
last  week— as  I  hear.     This  everlasting  gout  kept  m 
indoors  all  day.     And  she  is  as  good  as  slie  is  beaut; 
ful. "     Could  the  fate  that  was  to  overtake  this  chil 
have  been  foreseen  by  the  earl,  he  would  have  stru. 
her  down  to  death,  in  his  love,  as  she  stood  be:oi\ 
him,  rather  than  suffer  her  to  enter  upon  it. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   BROKEN   CROSS 

Lady  Isabel's  carriage  continued  its  way,  and  depos- 
ited her  at  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Levison.     Mrs.  Lc\ ; 
son  was  nearly  eighty  years  of  age,  and  very  severe  :; 
speech   and  manner,    or,  as   Mrs.  Vane  expressed   r. 
* 'crabbed.  "   She  looked  the  image  of  impatience  when 
Isabel   entered,    with   her   cap   pushed  all   awry,   and 
pulling  at  her   black   satin   gown,  for  Mrs.  Vane  had 
kept  her  waiting  dinner,  and  Isabel  was  keeping  her 
from  her  tea;  and  that  does  not  agree  with  the  aged 
with  their  health  or  their  temper. 

"I  fear  I  am  late,"  exclaimed  Lady  Isabel,  as  she 
advanced  to  Mrs.  Levison;  *'but  a  gentleman  dined 
with  papa  to-day,  and  it  made  us  rather  longer  at 
table." 

"You  are  twenty-five  minutes  behind  your  time, 
cried   the  old  lady  sharply,    "and    I    want    my   te.. 
Emma,  order  it  in." 

At  that  moment  a  young  and  elegant  man  lounge 
into  the  room.  He  was  deemed  handsome,  with  h: 
clearly-cut  features,  his  dark  eyes,  his  raven  hair,  an 
his  white  teeth;  but  to  a  keen  observer  those  foatun 
had  not  an  attractive  expression,  and  the  dark  eyes/ 
had  a  great  knack  of  looking  away  while  he  spoke  to 
you.     It  was  Francis,  Captain  Levison. 


12  EAST  LYNNE 

He  was  grandson  to  the  old  lady,  and  first  cousin 
to  Mrs.  Vane.  Few  men  were  so  fascinating  in  man- 
ners (at  times  and  seasons),  in  face,  and  in  form;  few 
men  won  so  completely  upon  their  hearers'  ears,  and 
few  were  so  heartless  in  their  heart  of  hearts.  The 
world  courted  him,  and  society  honored  him;  for, 
though  he  was  a  graceless  spendthrift,  and  it  was 
known  that  he  was,  he  was  the  presumptive  heir  to 
the  old  and  rich  Sir  Peter  Levison. 

The  ancient  lady  spoke  up:  *' Captain  Levison, 
Lady  Isabel  Vane."  They  both  acknowledged  the 
introduction;  and  Isabel,  a  child  yet  in  the  way  of  the 
world,  blushed  crimson  at  the  admiring  looks  cast  upon 
her  by  the  young  guardsman.  Strange — strange  that 
she  should  make  the  acquaintance  of  those  two  men  in 
the  same  day,  almost  in  the  same  hour ;  the  two,  of  all 
the  human  race,  who  vv^ere  to  exercise  so  powerful  an 
influence  over  her  future  life! 

When  they  adjourned  to  the  ball-room  it  was  to 
Isabel  as  an  enchanting  scene  of  dreamland,  for  her 
heart  was  in  its  spring- tide  of  early  freshness,  and  the 
satiety  of  experience  had  not  come. 

"Halloo!"  cried  an  Oxford  student,  with  a  long 
rent-roll  in  prospective,  who  was  screwing  himself 
against  the  wall,  not  to  be  in  the  way  of  the  waltz- 
ers,  "I  thought  you  had  given  up  coming  to  these 
places?" 

"So  I  had, "  replied  the  fast  nobleman  addressed, 
the  son  of  a  marquis.  "But  I  am  on  the  lookout,  so 
am  forced  into  them  again.  I  think  a  ball-room  the 
greatest  bore  in  life." 

"On  the  lookout  for  what?" 

"For  a  wife.  My  governor  has  stopped  supplies, 
and  has  vowed  by  his  beard  not  to  advance  another 
shilling,  or  pay  a  debt,  till  I  reform.  As  a  prelimi- 
nary step  toward  it,  he  insists  upon  a  wife,  and  I  am 
trying  to  choose  one,  for  I  am  deeper  in  debt  than  you 
imagine." 

"Take  the  new  beauty,  then." 


EAST  LYNNE 

**Who  is  she?" 

*'Lady  Isabel  Vane." 

"Much  obliged  for  the  suggestion,"  replied  the  earl. 
"But  one  likes  a  respectable  father-in-hiw,  and  Mount 
Severn  is  going  to  smash.  He  and  I  are  too  much  in 
the  same  line,  and  might  clash  in  the  long  run." 

"One  can't  have  everything;  the  girl's  beauty  is 
beyond  common.  I  saw  that  rake,  Levison,  make'  up 
to  her.  He  fancies  he  can  carry  all  before  him,  where 
women  are  concerned." 

"So  he  does,  often,"  was  his  quiet  reply. 

"I  hate  the  fellow!  He  thinks  so  much  of  iumscii, 
with  his  curled  hair  and  shining  white  teeth;  and  he's 
as  heartless  as  an  owl.  What  was  that  hushed-up 
business  about  ^liss  Charteris?" 

"Who's  to  know?  Levison  slipped  out  of  the 
escapade  like  an  eel,  and  the  women  protested  that 
he  was  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.  Three- 
fourths  of  the  world  believed  them." 

"And  she  went  abroad  and  died;  and  Levison — licre 
he  comes!  And  Mount  Severn's  daughter  with  him." 
They  were  approaching  at  that  moment,  Francis  Levi- 
son and  Lady  Isabel.  He  was  expressing  his  regret 
at  the  untoward  accident  of  the  cross  for  the  tenth 
time  that  night.  "I  feel  that  it  can  never  be  atoned 
for,"  whispered  he;  "that  the  heartfelt  homage  of  my 
whole  life  would  not  be  sufFicient  compens^ition. " 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  thrilling  gentleness  gratifying^ 
to  the  ear,  but  dangerous  to  the  heart.  Lady  Isabel 
glanced  up  and  caught  his  eyes  gazing  upon  her  with 
the  deepest  tenderness — a  language  hers  had  never  yet 
encountered.  A  vivid  blush  again  ro.se  to  her  check, 
her  eyelids  fell,  and  her  timid  words  died  away  in 
silence. 

"Take  care,  take  care,  my  young  Lady  Isabel," 
murmured  the  Oxonian  under  his  breath,  as  they 
passed  him,  "that  man  is  as  false  as  he  is  fair." 

"I  think  he  is  a  rascal,"  remarked  the  earl. 

"I  know  he  is;  I  know  a  thing  or  two  about  him. 
He  wonld  ruin  her  heart  for  the  renown  of  the  exploit. 


14  EAST  LYNNE 

because  she's  a  beauty,  and  then  fling  it  away  broken. 
He  has  none  to  give  in  return  for  the  gift." 

"Just  as  much  as  my  new  race-horse  has, "  concluded 
the  earl.     '*She  is  very  beautiful." 


CHAPTER  III 


BARBARA  HARE 


West  Lynne  was  a  town  of  some  importance,  partic- 
ularly in  its  own  eyes,  though,  being  neither  a  manu- 
facturing one  nor  a  cathedral  one,  nor  even  the  chief 
town  of  the  county,  it  was  somewhat  primitive  in  its 
manners  and  customs.  Passing  out  at  the  town,  toward 
the  east,  you  come  upon  several  detached  gentlemen's 
houses,  in  the  vicinity  of  which  stood  the  church  of 
St.  Jude,  which  was  more  aristocratic  (in  the  matter 
of  its  congregation)  than  the  other  churches  of  West 
Lynne.  For  about  a  mile  these  houses  were  scattered, 
the  church  being  situated  at  their  commencement, 
close  to  the  busy  part  of  the  place,  and  about  a  mile 
farther  on  you  came  upon  the  beautiful  estate  which 
was  called  East  Lynne. 

Between  the  gentleman's  house  mentioned  and  East 
Lynne,  the  mile  of  road  was  very  solitary,  being  much 
overshadowed  with  trees.  One  house  stood  there,  and 
that  was  three-quarters  of  a  mile  before  you  came  to 
East  Lynne.  It  was  on  the  left  side,  a  square,  ugly, 
red  brick  house  with  a  weather-cock  on  the  top,  stand- 
ing some  little  distance  from  the  road.  This  place 
was  called  the  Grove,  and  was  the  property  and  resi- 
dence of  Richard  Hare,  Esq. ,  commonly  called  Mr. 
Justice  Hare. 

Justice  and  Mrs.  Hare  had  three  children,  a  son  and 
two  daughters.  Annie  was  the  elder  of  the  girls,  and 
had  married  young;  Barbara,  the  younger,  was  now 
nineteen,  and  Richard,  the  eldest — but  we  shall  come 
to  him  hereafter. 

In   this  sitting-room,  on  a  chilly  evening,  early  in 


EAST  LYXNE  13 

May,  a  few  days  subsequent  to  that  which  had  wit- 
nessed the  visit  of  Mr.  Carlyle  to  the  Earl  of  Mount 
Severn,  sat  Mrs.  Hare,  a  pale,  delicate  woman,  buried 
in  shawls  and  cushions;  but  the  day  had  been  warm. 
At  the  window  sat  a  pretty  girl,  very  fair,  with  blue 
eyes,  light  hair,  a  bright  complexion,  and  small 
aquiline  features.  She  was  listlessly  turning  over  the 
leaves  of  a  book. 

''Barbara,  I  am  so  thirsty,"  said  Mrs.  Marc.  "If 
seven  o'clock  would  but  strike!  I  am  dying  for  my 
tea." 

It  may  occur  to  the  reader  that  a  lady  in  her  own 
house  "dying  for  her  tea,"  might  surely  order  it 
brought  in,  although  the  customary  hour  had  not 
struck.  Not  so  Mrs.  Hare.  Since  her  husband  had 
first  brought  her  home  to  that  house,  four-and-twenty 
years  ago,  she  had  never  dared  to  express  a  will  in  it; 
scarcely,  on  her  own  responsibility,  to  give  an  order. 
Justice  Hare  was  stern,  imperative,  obstinate,  and  self- 
conceited;  she,  timid,  gentle,  and  submissive.  She 
had  loved  him  with  all  her  heart,  and  her  life  had  been 
one  long  yielding  of  her  will  to  his;  in  fact,  she  had 
no  will ;  his  was  all  in  all.  Far  was  she  from  feeling  the 
servitude  a  yoke;  some  natures  do  not;  and  to  do  Mr. 
Hare  justice,  his  powerful  will,  that  must  bear  down 
all  before  it,  was  in  fault,  not  his  kindness;  he  never 
meant  to  be  unkind  to  his  wife.  Of  his  three  chil- 
dren, Barbara  alone  had  inherited  his  will. 

"Here  comes  papa,"  said  Barbara  presently.  "Oh, 
I  am  so  glad,"  cried  poor  Mrs.  Hare.  "Perhaps  he 
will  not  mind  having  the  tea  in  at  once,  if  I  tell  him  how 
thirsty  I  am. "  The  justice  came  in.  A  middle-sized 
man,  with  pompous  features,  a  pompous  walk,  and  a 
flaxen  wig.  In  his  aquiline  nose,  compressed  lips, 
and  pointed  chin,  might  be  traced  a  resemblance  to 
his  daughter;  though  he  never  could  have  been  half  so 
good-looking  as  was  pretty  Barbara. 

"Richard,"  spoke  up  Mrs.  Hare,  from  between  her 
shawls,  the  instant  he  opened  the  door. 

^*Well?" 


16  EAST  LYNNE 

**Woulcl  you  please  let  me  have  the  tea  in  now? 
Would  you  very  much  mind  taking  it  a  little  earlier 
this  evening?  I  am  feverish  again,  and  my  tongue  is 
so  parched  I  don't  know  how  to  speak. " 

"Oh,  it's  near  seven;  you  won't  have  long  to  wait." 

With  this  exceedingly  gracious  answer  to  an  inva- 
lid's request,  Mr.  Hare  quitted  the  room  again,  and 
banged  the  door!  He  had  not  spoken  unkindly  or 
roughly,  simply  with  indifference.  But  ere  Mrs. 
Hare's  meek  sigh  of  disappointment  was  over,  the 
door  was  re-opened,  and  the  flaxen  wig  thrust  in 
again. 

'*I  don't  mind  if  I  do  have  it  now.  It  will  be  a  fine 
moonlight  night,  and  I  am  going  with  Pinner  as  far 
as  Beauchamp's  to  smoke  a  pipe.  Order  it  in,  Bar- 
bara. ' '  The  tea  was  made  and  partaken  of,  and  the 
justice  departed  for  Mr.  Beaucham.p's,  Squire  Pinner 
calling  for  him  at  the  gate.  Mr.  Beauchamp  was  a 
gentleman  who  farmed  a  great  deal  of  land,  and  who 
was  also  Lord  Mount  Severn's  agent,  or  steward  for 
East  Lynjie.  He  lived  higher  up  the  road,  some  little 
distance  beyond  East  Lynne. 

'*When  will  he  come  home?"  murmured  Barbara, 
as  she  leaned  her  head  upon  the  gate.  '*Oh,  what 
would  life  be  without  him?  How  miserable  these  few 
days  have  been !  I  wonder  what  took  him  there !  I 
wonder  what  is  detaining  him !  Corney  said  he  was 
only  gone  for  a  day. ' ' 

The  faint  echo  of  footsteps  in  the  distance  stole  upon 
her  ear,  and  Barbara  drew  a  little  back,  and  hid  her- 
self under  the  shelter  of  the  trees,  not  choosing  to  be 
seen  by  any  stray  passer-by.  But,  as  they  drew  near, 
a  sudden  change  came  over  her;  her  eyes  lighted  up, 
her  cheeks  were  dyed  with  crimson,  and  her  veins 
tingled  with  excess  of  rapture — for  she  knew  those 
footsteps,  and  loved  them,  only  too  well. 

Cautiously  peeping  over  the  gate  again,  she  looked 
down  the  road.  A  tall  form,  whose  very  height  and 
strength  bore  a  grace  of  which  its  owner  was  uncon- 
scious, was  advancing  rapidly  toward  her  from,   the 


EAST  LYNNE  17 

direction  of  West  Lynne.  Again  she  shrank  away; 
true  love  is  ever  timid:  and  whatever  may  have  been 
Barbara  Hare's  other  qualities,  her  love  at  least  was 
true  and  deep.  But,  instead  of  the  gate  opening  with 
the  firm,  quick  motion  peculiar  to  the  hand  v/hich 
guided  itj  the  footsteps  seemed  to  pass,  and  not  to 
have  turned  at  all  toward  it.  Barbara's  heart  sank, 
and  she  stole  to  the  gate  again,  and  looked  out  with  a 
yearning  look. 

Yes,  sure  enough,  he  was  striding  on,  not  thinking 
of  her,  not  coming  to  her,  and  she,  in  the  disappoint- 
ment and  impulse  of  the  moment,  called  to  him: 
"Archibald!"  Mr.  Carlyle — it  was  no  other — turned 
on  his  heel,  and  approached  the  gate.  '*Is  it  you, 
Barbara?  Watching  for  thieves  and  poachers?  How 
are  you?" 

"How  are  you?"  she  returned,  holding  the  gate 
open  for  him  to  enter,  as  he  shook  hands,  and  striving 
to  calm  down  her  agitation.     "When  did  you  return?" 

"Only  now,  by  the  eight-o'clock  train,  which  got 
beyond  its  time,  having  drawled  unpardonably  at  the 
stations.  They  little  thought  they  had  me  in  it,  as 
their  looks  betrayed  when  I  got  out.  I  have  not  been 
home  yet. ' ' 

"No!  what  will  Cornelia  say?" 

"I  went  into  the  office  for  five  minutes.  But  I  have 
a  few  words  to  say  to  Beauchamp,  and  am  going  up  at 
once.  Thank  you,  I  cannot  come  in  now ;  I  intend  to 
do  so  on  my  return. " 

"Papa  has  gone  up  to  Mr.  Beauchamp's. " 

"Mr.  Hare!     Has  he?" 

"He  and  Squire  Pinner,"  continued  Barbara. 
"They  have  gone  to  have  a  smoking  bout.  And  if 
you  wait  there  with  papa,  it  will  be  too  late  to  come 
in,  for  he  is  sure  not  to  be  home  before  eleven  or 
twelve."  Mr.  Carlylo  bent  his  head  in  deliberation. 
"Then  I  think  it  is  of  little  use  my  going  on,"  said  he, 
"for  my  business  with  Beauchamp  is  private.  I  must 
defer  it  until  to-morrow. 

He   took   the   ^rate  out.  of  her  hand,  closed  it,  and 


18  EAST  LYNNE 

plax:ed  the  hand  withio  his  own  arm,  to  walk  with  her 
to  the  house.  It  was  done  in  a  matter-of-fact,  real 
sort  of  way;  nothing  of  romance  or  sentiment  hallowed 
it,  but  Barbara  Hare  felt  that  she  was  in  Eden. 

'Tve  brought  something  for  you,"  he  said,  as  he 
proceeded  to  search  his  pockets.  Every  pocket  was 
visited,  apparently  in  vain. 

'* Barbara,  I  think  it  is  gone.  I  must  have  lost  it 
somehow."  But,  upon  a  second  search,  he  came  upon 
something  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat-tail.  "Here  it  is, 
I  believe;  what  brought  it  there?"  He  opened  a  small 
box,  and  taking  out  a  long,  gold  chain,  threw  it 
around  her  neck.  A  locket  was  attached  to  it.  The 
crimson  went  and  came  on  her  cheeks;  her  heart  beat 
more  rapidly.     She  could  not  speak  a  word  of  thanks. 

'*What  a  beautiful  chain!"  muttered  Mrs.  Hare,  in 
surprise.  "Archibald,  you  are  too  good,  too  generous! 
This  must  have  cost  a  great  deal;  this  is  beyond  a 
trifle." 

"Nonsense!"  laughed  Mr.  Carlyle.  "You  see  the 
London  shopman  brought  forth  some  lockets,  and 
enlarged  upon  their  convenience  for  holding  deceased 
relatives'  hair,  not  to  speak  of  sweethearts,  until  I  told 
him  he  might  attach  one.  I  thought  it  might  hold 
that  piece  of  hair  you  prize,  Barbara,"  he  concluded, 
dropping  his  voice. 

"What  piece?"  asked  Mrs.  Hare. 

Mr.  Carlyle  glanced  round  the  room,  as  if  fearful 
the  very  walls  might  hear  his  whisper.  "Richard's; 
Barbara  showed  it  me  one  day  when  she  was  turning- 
out  her  desk,  and  said  it  was  a  curl  taken  off  in  that 
illness." 

Mrs.  Hare  sank  back  in  her  chair,  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands,  shivering  visibly.  The  words  evidently 
awoke  some  poignant  source  of  deep  sorrow.  "Oh, 
my  boy!  my  boy!"  she  wailed — "my  boy;  my  unhappy 
boy!  Mr.  Hare  wonders  at  my  ill-health,  Archibald; 
Barbara  ridicules  it;  but  there  lies  the  source  of  all 
my  misery,  mental  and  bodily.  Oh,  Richard! 
Richard!** 


EAST  LYNNE  i9 

There  was  a  distressing  pause,  for  the  topic  admitted 
of  neither  hope  nor  consolation.  **Put  your  chain  on 
again,  Barbara,"  Mr.  Carlyle  said,  after  a  while,  "and 
I  wish  you  health  to  wear  it  out.  Health  and  refor- 
mation, young  lady!" 

Barbara  smiled  and  glanced  at  him  with  her  pretty 
blue  eyes,  so  full  of  love.  When  he  rose  to  go,  Bar- 
bara accompanied  him  to  the  gate.  "I  think  your 
mother  looks  unusually  ill,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"You  know  how  she  suffers  a  little  thing  to  upset 
her ;  and  last  night  she  had  what  she  calls  one  of  her 
dreams,"  answered  Barbara.  "She  says  that  it  is  a 
warning  that  something  bad  is  going  to  happen,  and 
she  has  been  in  the  most  unhappy,  feverish  state  pos- 
sible all  day.  Papa  has  been  quite  angry  over  her 
being  so  weak  and  nervous,  declaring  that  she  ought 
to  rouse  herself  out  of  her  'nerves. '  Of  course  we  dare 
not  tell  him  about  the  dream." 

"It  related  to— the " 

Mr.  Carlyle  stopped,  and  Barbara  glanced  round 
with  a  shudder,  and  drew  closer  to  him  as  she  whis- 
pered.     He  had  not  given  her  his  arm  this  time. 

"Yes,  to  the  murder.  You  know  mamma  has  always 
declared  that  Bethel  had  something  to  do  with  it ;  she 
says  her  dreams  would  have  convinced  her  of  it,  if 
nothing  else  did;  and  she  dreamt  she  saw  him  with — 
with — you  know." 

"Hallijohn?"  whispered  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"With  Hallijohn,"  assented  Barbara,  with  a  shiver. 
"He  was  standing  over  him,  as  he  lay  on  the  floor, 
just  as  he  did  lay  on  it.  And  that  wretched  Afy  was 
standing  at  the  end  of  the  kitchen,  looking  on." 

"But  Mrs.  Hare  ought  not  to  suffer  dreams  to  dis- 
turb her  peace  by  day,"  remonstrated  Mr.  Carlyle. 
"It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  she  dreams  of  the 
murder,  because  she  is  always  dwelling  upon  it;  but 
she  should  strive  and  throw  the  feeling  from  her  with 
the  night." 

"You  know  what  mamma  is.  Of  course  she  ought 
to  do  so,  but  she  does  not.     Papa  wonders  what  makes 


20  EAST  LYNNE 

Her  get  up  so  ill  and  trembling  of  a  morning;  and 
mamma  has  to  make  all  sorts  of  evasive  excuses;  for 
not  a  hint,  as  you  are  aware,  must  be  breathed  to  him 
about  the  murder." 

Mr.  Carlyle  gravely  nodded. 

"Mamma  does  so  harp  upon  Bethel.  And  I  know 
this  dream  arose  from  nothing  in  the  world  but 
because  she  saw  him  pass  the  gate  yesterday.  Not 
that  she  thinks  it  was  he  who  did  it;  unfortunately, 
there  is  no  room  for  that;  but  she  will  persist  that  he 
had  a  hand  in  it  some  way,  and  he  haunts  her 
dreams." 

They  reached  the  gate,  and  Mr.  Carlyle  was  about 
to  pass  out  of  it  when  Barbara  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm  to  detain  him,  and  spoke  in  a  timid  voice: 
*' Archibald!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  have  not  said  a  word  of  thanks  to  you  for  this," 
she  said,  touching  the  chain  and  locket;  "my  tongue 
seemed  tied.     Do  not  deem  me  ungrateful." 

' '  You  foolish  girl !  it  is  not  worth  any  thanks.  There ! 
now  I  am  paid.     Good-night,  Barbara." 

He  had  bent  down  and  kissed  her  cheek,  swung 
through  the  gate,  laughing,  and  strode  awa}^  "Don't 
say  I  never  gave  you  anything,"  he  turned  his  head 
round  to  say,  "Good-night." 

All  her  veins  were  tingling,  all  her  pulses  beating; 
her  heart  was  throbbing  with  its  sense  of  bliss.  He 
had  never  kissed  her,  that  she  could  remember,  since 
she  was  a  child.  And  when  she  returned  indoors,  her 
spirits  were  so  extravagantly  high  that  Mrs.  Hare 
wondered. 

"Ring  for  the  lamp,  Barbara,  and  you  can  get  to 
your  work.  But  don't  have  the  shutters  closed;  I  like 
to  look  out  on  these  light  nights." 

Barbara,  however,  did  not  get  to  her  work ;  she  also, 
perhaps,  liked  "looking  out  on  a  light  night,"  for  she 
sat  down  at  the  window.  She  was  living  the  last  half 
hour  over  again.  "  'Don't  say  I  never  gave  you  any- 
thing,' "  she  murmured;  "did  he   allude  to  the  chain 


EAST  LYNNE  21 

or  to  the — kiss?  Oh,  Archibald,  why  don't  you  say 
that  you  love  me?" 

Mr.  Carlyle  had  been  all  his  life  upon  intimate  terms 
with  the  Hare  family.  His  father's  first  wife — for  the 
late  lawyer  Carlyle  had  been  twice  married — had  been 
a  cousin  of  Justice  Hare's,  and  this  had  caused  them 
to  be  much  together.  Archibald,  the  child  of  the  sec- 
ond Mrs.  Carlyle,  had  alternately  teased  and  petted 
Anne  and  Barbara  Hare,  boy  fashion.  Sometimes  he 
quarreled  with  the  pretty  little  girls,  sometimes  he 
caressed  them,  as  he  would  have  done  had  the}^  been 
his  sisters;  and  he  made  no  scruple  of  declaring  pub- 
licly to  the  pair  that  Anne  was  his  favorite.  A  gentle, 
yielding  girl  she  was,  like  her  mother ;  whereas  Bar- 
bara displayed  her  own  will,  and  it  sometimes  clashed 
with  young  Carlyle 's. 

Suddenly  she  started.  What  was  that  at  the  far  end 
of  the  lawn,  just  in  advance  of  the  shade  of  the  thick 
trees?  Their  leaves  were  not  causing  the  movement, 
for  it  was  a  still  night.  It  had  been  there  some  min- 
utes; it  was  evidently  a  human  form.  What  was  it? 
Surely  it  was  making  signs  to  her! 

Barbara  Hare  turned  sick  with  utter  terror.  She 
must  fathom  it;  she  must  see  who  and  what  it  was; 
for  the  servants  she  dared  not  call,  and  those  move- 
ments were  imperative,  and  might  not  be  disregarded. 
But  she  possessed  more  innate  courage  than  falls  to 
the  lot  of  some  young  ladies. 

* 'Mamma,"  she  said,  returning  to  the  parlor  and 
catching  up  her  shawl,  while  striving  to  speak  without 
emotion,  "I  shall  just  walk  down  the  path,  and  see  if 
papa  is  coming," 


EAST  LYNNE 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE   MOONLIGHT  INTERVIEW 


Cold  and  still  looked  the  old  house  in  the  moon- 
beams. Never  was  the  moon  brighter;  it  lighted  the 
far-stretching  garden,  it  illuminated  even  the  weather- 
cock aloft,  it  shone  upon  the  trees  and  upon  one  who 
stood  out  from  the  shadow  beckoning  in  it.  ''Who 
and  what  are  you?"  she  asked,  under  her  breath. 
"What  do  you  want?" 

"Barbara,"  was  the  whispered,  eager  answer, 
"don't  you  recognize  me?"  Too  surely  she  did — the 
voice  at  any  rate — and  a  cry  escaped  her,  telling  more 
of  sorrow  than  of  joy,  though  betraying  both.  She 
penetrated  the  trees,  and  burst  into  tears  as  one  in 
the  dress  of  a  farm  laborer  caught  her  in  his  arms.  In 
spite  of  his  smock-frock,  and  his  straw-wisped  hat, 
and  his  false  whiskers,  black  as  Erebus,  she  knew  him 
for  her  brother. 

"Oh,  Richard!  where  have  you  comxC  from?  What 
brings  you  here?" 

"Did  you  know  me,  Barbara?"  was  the  rejoinder. 

"How  was  it  likely — in  this  disguise?  A  thought 
crossed  my  mind  that  it  might  be  some  one  from  you, 
and  even  that  made  me  sick  with  terror.  How  could 
you  run  such  a  risk  as  to  come  here?"  she  added, 
wringing  her  hands.  "If  you  are  discovered,  it  is 
certain  death;  death — upon — you  know!" 

"Upon  the  gibbet,"  returned  Richard  Hare.  "I 
do  know  it,  Barbara." 

"Then  why  risk  it?  Should  mamma  see  )^ou  it  will 
kill  her  outright," 

"I  can't  live  on  as  I  have  been  living,"  he  answered, 
gloomily.  "I  have  been  working  in  London  ever 
since " 

"In  London!"  interrupted  Barbara. 


EAST  LYNNK  23 

"In  London,  and  have  never  stirred  out  of  it.  But 
it  is  hard  work  for  me,  and  now  I  have  an  opportunity 
of  doing  better,  if  1  can  get  a  little  money.  Perhaps 
my  mother  can  let  me  have  it;  it  is  what  I  have  come 
to  ask  for." 

"How  are  you  working?     What  at?" 

"In  a  stable-yard." 

"A  stable-yard!"  she  uttered,  in  a  deeply  shocked 
tone.     "Richard!" 

"Did  you  expect  it  would  be  as  a  merchant,  or  a 
banker,  or  perhaps  as  secretary  to  one  of  her  majesty's 
ministers — or  that  I  was  a  gentleman  at  large,  living 
on  my  fortune?"  retorted  Richard  Hare,  in  a  tone  of 
chafed  anguish,  painful  to  hear.  "I  get  twelve  shill- 
ings a  week,  and  that  has  to  find  me  in  everything." 

"Poor  Richard!  poor  Richard!"  she  wailed,  caress- 
ing his  hand  and  weeping  over  it.  "Oh,  what  a  mis- 
erable night's  work  that  was!  Our  only  comfort  is, 
Richard,  that  you  must  have  committed  the  deed  in 
madness." 

"I  did  not  commit  it  at  all,"  he  replied. 

"What!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Barbara,  I  swear  that  I  am  innocent;  I  swear  I 
was  not  present  when  the  man  was  murdered;  I  swear 
that,  from  my  own  positive  knowledge,  my  eyesight, 
1  know  no  more  who  did  it  than  you.  The  guessing 
at  it  is  enough  for  me;  and  my  guess  is  as  sure  and 
true  a  one  as  that  the  moon  is  in  the  heavens. " 

Barbara  shivered  as  she  drew  close  to  him.  It  was 
a  shivering  subject.  "You  surely  do  not  mean  to 
throw  the  guilt  on  Bethel?" 

"Bethel!"  slightly  returned  Richard  Hare.  "He 
had  nothing  to  do  v/ith  it.  He  was  after  his  gins  and 
his  snares,  that  night,  though,  poacher  as  he  is!" 

"Bethel  is  no  poacher,  Richard." 

"Is  he  not?"  returned  Richard  Hare,  significantly. 
"The  truth  as  to  what  he  is  may  come  out,  some  time. 
Not  that  I  wish  it  to  come  out;  the  man  has  done  no 
harm  to  me,  and  he  may  go  on  poaching  with  impu- 
nity till  doomsday  for  all  I  care.    He  and  Locksley " 


24  EAST  LYNNE 

"Richard,"  interrupted  his  sister,  in  a  hushed 
voice,  ''mamma  entertains  one  fixed  idea,  which  she 
cannot  put  from  her.  She  is  certain  that  Bethel  had 
something  to  do  with  the  murder." 

"Then  she  is  wrong.     Why  should  she  think  so?" 

"How  the  conviction  arose  at  first,  I  cannot  tell 
you;  1  do  not  think  she  knows  herself.  But  you 
remember  how  weak  and  fanciful  she  is,  and  since 
that  dreadful  night  she  is  always  having  what  she 
calls  'dreams' — meaning  that  she  dreams  of  the  mur- 
der. In  all  these  dreams  Bethel  is  prominent;  and  she 
says  she  feels  an  absolute  certainty  that  he  was,  in 
some  way  or  other,  mixed  up  in  it." 

"Barbara,  he  was  no  more  mixed  up  in  it  than  you," 

"And — you  say  you  were  not?" 

"I  was  not  even  at  the  cottage  at  the  time;  I  swear 
it  to  you.     The  man  who  did  the  deed  was  Thorn." 

"Thorn!"  echoed  Barbara,  lifting  her  head.  "Who 
is  Thorn?" 

"I  don't  know  who.  I  wish  I  did;  I  wish  I  could 
unearth  him.     He  was  a  friend  of  Afy's. " 

Barbara  threw  back  her  head  with  a  haughty  gesture. 
* '  Richard ! ' ' 

"What!" 

"You  forget  yourself  when  you  mention  that  name 
to  me." 

"Well,"  returned  Richard,  "it  was  not  to  discuss 
these  things  that  I  put  myself  in  jeopardy;  and  to 
assert  my  innocence  can  do  no  good;  it  cannot  set  aside 
the  coroner's  verdict  of  'Wilful  murder  against  Rich- 
ard Hare,  the  younger. '  Is  my  father  as  bitter  against 
me  as  ever?" 

"(Juite.  He  never  mentions  your  name,  or  suffers 
it  to  be  mentioned;  he  gave  orders  to  the  servants 
that  it  never  was  to  be  spoken  in  the  house  again. 
Eliza  could  not,  or  would  not  remember,  and  she  per- 
sisted in  calling  your  room  'Mr.  Richard's.'  I  think 
the  woman  did  it  heedlessly,  not  maliciously,  to  pro- 
voke papa;  she  was  a  good  servant,  and  had  been  with 
us  three  years,  you  know.      The  first  time  she   trans- 


EAST  LYNNE  25 

gressed,  papa  warned  her ;  the  second,  he  thundered 
at  her  as  I  believe  nobody  else  in  the  world  can  thun- 
der; and  the  thirds  he  turned  her  from  the  doors, 
never  allowing  her  to  get  her  bonnet,  one  of  the 
others  carrying  her  bonnet  and  shawl  to  the  gate,  and 
her  boxes  were  sent  away  the  same  day.  Papa  took 
an  oath  that — did  you  hear  of  it?" 

**What  oath?     He  takes  many." 

"This  was  a  solemn  one,  Richard.  After  the  delivery 
of  the  verdict,  he  took  an  oath  in  the  justice-room,  in 
the  presence  of  his  brother  magistrates,  that  if  he 
could  find  you  he  would  deliver  you  up  to  justice,  and 
that  he  would  do  it,  though  you  might  not  turn  up  for 
ten  years  to  come.  You  know  his  disposition,  Rich- 
ard, and  therefore  may  be  sure  he  will  keep  it 
Indeed,  it  is  most  dangerous  for  you  to  be  here." 

"I  know  that  he  never  treated  me  as  he  ought, " 
cried  Richard,  bitterly.  **If  my  health  was  delicate, 
causing  my  poor  mother  to  indulge  me,  ought  that  to 
have  been  a  reason  for  his  ridiculing  me  on  every 
possible  occasion,  public  and  private?  Had  my  home 
been  made  happier  I  should  not  have  sought  the  soci- 
ety I  did  elsewhere.  Barbara,  I  must  be  allowed  an 
interview  with  my  mother. "  Barbara  Hare  reflected 
before  she  spoke.  "I  do  not  see  how  it  could  be  man- 
aged." 

'*Why  can't  she  come  out  to  me  as  you  have  done? 
Is  she  up,  or  in  bed?" 

"It  is  impossible  to  think  of  it  to-night,"  returned 
Barbara,  in  an  alarmed  tone.  "Papa  may  be  in  at 
any  moment;  he  is  spending  the  evening  at  Beau- 
champ's." 

"It  is  hard  to  have  been  separated  from  her  eighth 
een  months,  and  to  go  back  without  seeing  her," 
returned  Richard.  "And  about  the  money?  It  is  a 
hundred  pounds  that  I  want." 

"You  must  be  here  again  to-morrow  night,  Richard; 
the  money,  no  doubt,  can  be  yours,  but  I  am  not  so 
sure  about  your  seeing  mamma.  I  am  terrified  for 
your   safety.      But,  if  it  is  as  you  say,  that  you  are 


26  EAST  LYNNE 

innocent,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  "could  it  not  be 
proved?" 

''Who  is  to  prove  it?  The  evidence  is  strong  against 
me;  and  Thorn,  did  I  mention  him,  would  be  as  a  myth 
to  other  people;  nobody  knew  anything  of  him." 

"Is  he  a  myth?"  said  Barbara,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Are  you  and  I  myths?"  retorted  Richard.  "So, 
even  you  doubt  me?" 

"Richard,"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  "why  not  tell 
the  whole  circumstances  to  Archibald  Carlyle?  If  any 
one  can  help  you,  or  take  measures  to  establish  youi 
innocence,  he  can.  And  you  know  that  he  is  true  as 
steel." 

"There  is  no  other  man  living  should  be  trusted 
with  the  secret  that  I  am  here,  except  Carlyle.  Where 
is  it  supposed  that  I  am,  Barbara?" 

"Some  think  that  you  are  dead;  some  that  you  are 
in  Australia;  the  very  uncertainty  has  nearly  killed 
mamma.  A  report  arose  that  you  had  been  seen  at 
Liverpool,  in  an  Australian-bound  ship,  but  we  could 
not  trace  it  to  any  foundation." 

"It  had  none.  I  dodged  my  way  to  London  and  there 
I  have  been." 

"Working  in  a  stable-yard?" 

"1  could  do  no  better.  I  was  not  brought  up  to 
anything,  and  I  did  understand  horses.  Besides,  a 
man  that  the  police-runners  were  after  could  be  more 
safe  in  obscurity,  considering  that  he  was  a  gentle- 
man, than " 

Barbara  turned  suddenly,  and  placed  her  hand  upon 
her  brother's  mouth.  "Be  silent  for  your  life,"  she 
whispered,  "here's  papa."  Voices  were  heard 
approaching  the  gate — those  of  Justice  Hare  and 
Squire  Pinner.  The  latter  walked  on;  the  former 
came  in.  The  brother  and  sister  cowered  together, 
scarcely  daring  to  breathe;  you  might  have  heard  Bar- 
bara's heart  beating.  Mr.  Hare  closed  the  gate,  and 
walked  on,  up  the  path. 

"I  must  go,  Richard,"  said  Barbara,  hastily;  "I 
dare  Tiot  stay  another  minute.     Be  here  again  to-mor- 


EAST  LYNNE  27 

row  night,  and  meanwhile  I  will  see  what  can  be 
done." 

She  was  speeding  away,  but  Richard  held  her  back. 
"You  did  not  seem  to  believe  my  assertion  of  inno- 
cence. Barbara,  we  are  here  alone  in  the  still  night, 
with  God  above  us;  as  truly  as  that  you  and  I  must 
some  time  meet  Him  face  to  face,  I  told  you  the  truth. 
It  was  Thorn  murdered  Hallijohn,  and  I  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  it." 

Barbara  broke  out  of  the  trees  and  flew  alonof. 


CHAPTER  V 

MR.    CARLYLe's   office 

In  the  center  of  West  Lynne  stood  two  houses  adjoin- 
ing each  other,  one  large,  the  other  much  smaller. 
The  large  one  was  the  Carlyle  residence,  and  the  small 
one  was  devoted  to  the  Carlyle  offices.  The  name  of 
Carlyle  bore  a  lofty  standing  in  the  country ;  Carlyle  & 
Davidson  were  known  as  first-class  practitioners;  no 
pettifogging  lawyers  were  they.  It  was  Carlyle  & 
Davidson  in  the  days  gone  by ;  now  it  was  Archibald 
Carlyle.  The  old  firm  were  brothers-in-law — the  first 
Mrs.  Carlyle  having  been  Mr.  Davidson's  sister.  She 
had  died  and  left  one  child,  Cornelia,  who  was  grown 
up  when  her  father  married  again.  The  second  Mrs. 
Carlyle  died  when  her  son  was  born — Archibald;  and 
his  half  sister  reared  him,  loved  him  and  ruled  him. 
She  bore  for  him  all  the  authority  of  a  mother;  the 
boy  had  known  no  other,  and,  when  a  little  child,  he 
had  called  her  Mammy  Corny.  Mammy  Corny  had 
done  her  duty  by  him,  that  was  undoubted;  but 
Mammy  Corny  had  never  relaxed  her  rule;  with  an 
iron  hand  she  liked  to  rule  him  now,  in  great  things 
as  in  small,  just  as  she  had  done  in  the  days  of  his 
babyhood.  And  Archibald  generally  submitted,  for 
the  force  of  habit  is  strong.  She  was  a  woman  of 
strong  sense,  but,  in  some  things,  weak  of  judgment; 
and  the  ruling  passions  of  her  life  were  love  of  Archi- 


28  EAST  LYNNE 

bald  and  love  of  saving  money.  Mr.  Davidson  had 
died  earlier  than  Mr.  Carlyle,  and  his  fortune — he  had 
never  married — was  left  equally  divided  between  Cor- 
nelia and  Archibald.  Archibald  was  no  blood  relation 
to  him,  but  he  loved  the  open-hearted  boy  better  than 
his  niece  Cornelia.  Of  Mr.  Carlyle's  property,  a  small 
portion  only  was  bequeathed  to  his  daughter,  the  rest 
to  his  son;  and  in  this,  perhaps,  there  was  justice, 
since  the  ;^2o,ooo  brought  to  Mr.  Carlyle  by  his  second 
wife  had  been  chiefly  instrumental  in  the  accumula- 
tion of  his  large  fortune. 

Mr.  Carlyle  was  seated  in  his  own  private  room  in 
his  office  the  morning  after  his  return  from  town.  His 
confidential  clerk  and  manager  stood  near  him.  It 
was  'Mr.  Dill,  a  little,  meek-looking  irian  with  a  bald 
head.  He  was  sitting  at  his  desk  this  same  morning, 
when  the  door  timidly  opened,  and  the  pretty  face  of 
Barbara  Hare  appeared  at  it,  rosy  with  blushes. 

"Can  I  see  Mr.  Carlyle?  1  am  here  on  some  private 
business  for  mamma,  who  was  not  w^ell  enough  to 
come  herself.  It  is  a  little  private  matter  that  she 
does  not  wish  papa  to  know  of." 

"Child,"  answered  the  manager,  "a  law3'er  receives 
visits  from  many  people;  and  it  is  not  the  place  of 
those  about  him  to  'think.*  " 

He  opened  the  door  as  he  spoke,  ushered  her  into 
the  presence  of  Mr.  Carlyle,  and  left  her.  The  latter 
rose  in  astonishment.  "You  must  regard  me  as  a 
client,  and  pardon  my  intrusion,"  said  Barbara,  with 
a  forced  laugh,  to  hide  her  agitation.  "I  have  a 
strange  thing  to  tell  you,  but — is  it  impossible  that 
any  one  car  hear  us?"  she  broke  off  with  a  look  of  dread. 
"It  would  be — it  might  be — death!" 

"It  is  quite  impossible,"  calmly  replied  Mr.  Carlyle. 
"The  doors  are  double  doors." 

"Richard  is  here!" 

"Richard!"  repeated  Mr.  Carlyle.  "At  West 
Lynne!" 

"He  appeared  at  the  house  last  night  in  disguise, 
and  made  signs  to  me  from  the  grove  of  trees.     You 


EAST  LYNNE  25» 

may  imagine  my  alarm.  He  has  been  in  London  all 
this  while,  half -starving,  working — I  feel  ashamed  to 
mention  it  to  you — in  a  stable-yard.  And,  oh,  Archibald ! 
he  says  he  is  innocent,  and  that  the  person  who  really 
did  it  was  a  man  of  the  name  of  Thorn. " 

"What  Thorn?"  asked  Mr.  Carlyle,  suppressing  all 
signs  of  incredulity. 

"I  don't  know,  a  friend  of  Afy,  he  said.  Archibald, 
he  swore  to  it  in  the  most  solemn  manner;  and  I 
believe,  as  truly  as  that  I  am  now  repeating  it  to  you, 
that  he  was  speaking  the  truth.  I  want  you  to  see 
Richard,  if  possible ;  he  is  coming  to  the  same  place 
to-night.  If  he  can  tell  his  own  tale  to  you,  perhaps 
you  may  find  out  a  way  by  which  his  innocence  may 
be  made  manifest.  You  are  so  clever,  you  can  do 
anything." 

Mr.  Carlyle  smiled.  "Not  quite  anything,  Barbara. 
Was  this  the  purport  of  Richard's  visit — to  say  this?" 

''Oh,  no!  He  thinks  it  is  of  no  use  to  say  it,  for 
nobody  would  believe  him  against  the  evidence.  He 
came  to  ask  for  a  hundred  pounds;  he  says  he  has  an 
opportunity  of  doing  better,  if  he  can  have  that  sum. 
Mamma  has  sent  me  to  you ;  she  has  not  the  money  by 
her,  and  she  dare  not  ask  papa  for  it,  as  it  is  for  Rich- 
ard. She  bade  me  say  that  if  you  will  kindly  oblige 
her  with  the  money  to-day,  she  will  arrange  with  you 
about  the  repayment." 

"Do  you  want  it  now?"  asked  Mr.  Carlyle.  "If  so, 
I  must  send  to  the  bank.  Dill  never  keeps  much 
money  in  the  house  when  I'm  away." 

"Not  until  evening.  Can  you  manage  to  see  Rich- 
ard?" 

"It  is  hazardous,"  mused  Mr.  Carlyle;  "for  him,  I 
mean.  Still,  if  he  is  to  be  in  the  grove  to-night,  I 
may  as  well  be  there  also.  What  disguise  is  he 
in?" 

"A  farm  laborer's,  the  best  he  could  adopt  about 
here,  with  large  black  whiskers.  He  is  stopping 
about  three  miles  off,  he  said,  in  some  obscure  hiding- 
place.     And  now,"  continued  Barbara,  "I  want  you 


30  EAST  LYNNE 

to  advise  me ;  had  I  better  inform  mamma  that  Richard 
is  here,  or  not?" 

Mr.  Carlyle  did  not  understand,  and  said  so. 

"I  declare  I  am  bewildered,"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
should  have  premised  that  I  have  not  yet  told  mamma 
it  is  Richard  himself  who  is  here,  but  that  he  has  sent 
a  messenger  to  beg  for  this  money.  Would  it  be 
advisable  to  acquaint  her?" 

"Why  should  you  not?     I  think  you  ought  to  do  so.  " 

"Then  I  will;  I  was  fearing  the  hazard,  for  she  is 
sure  to  insist  upon  seeing  him.  Richard  also  wishes 
for  an  interview." 

"It  is  only  natural.  Mrs.  Hare  must  be  thankful 
to  hear,  so  far,  that  he  is  safe." 

"I  never  saw  anything  like  it,"  returned  Barbara; 
"the  change  is  akin  to  magic;  she  says  it  has  put  life 
into  her  anew." 

As  Barbara  left  the  office,  something  large  loomed 
down  upon  her,  like  a  ship  in  full  sail. 

She  must  have  been  the  tallest  lady  in  the  world — 
out  of  a  caravan.  A  fine  woman  in  her  day,  but 
angular  and  bony  now.  Still,  in  spite  of  the  angles 
and  the  bones,  there  was  majesty  in  the  appearance  of 
^liss  Carlyle. 

"Why — what  on  earth,"  began  she,  "have  you  been 
with  Archibald  for?" 

Barbara  Hare,  wishing  Miss  Carlyle  over  in  Asia, 
stammered  out  the  excuse  she  had  given  Mr.  Dill. 

"Your  mamma  sent  you  on  business!  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  thing.  Twice  have  I  been  to  see  Archibald, 
and  twice  did  Dill  answer  that  he  was  engaged  and 
must  not  be  interrupted.  1  shall  make  old  Dill  explain 
his  meaning  for  observing  a  mystery  over  it  to  me. " 

"There  is  no  myster}^"  answered  Barbara,  feeling 
quite  sick  lest  Miss  Carlyle  should  proclaim  there  was, 
before  the  clerks,  or  her  father.  "Mamma  wanted 
Mr.  Carlyle's  opinion  upon  a  little  private  business, 
and  not  feeling  well  enough  to  come  herself,  she  sent 
me." 

Miss  Carlyle  went    straight    to    her  brother,      "I 


EAST  LYNNE  31 

should  like  to  know  what  you  and  Barbara  do  with  a 
secret  between  you,"  she  demanded.  Mr.  Carlyle 
knew  her  and  her  resolute  expression  well,  and  he 
took  his  course  to  tell  her  the  truth. 

Mr.  Carlyle  bent  forward  and  spoke  in  a  whisper. 
"I  will  tell  you  if  you  wish,  Cornelia,  but  it  is  not  a 
pleasant  thing  to  hear.     Richard  Hare  has  returned." 

Miss  Carlyle  looked  perfectly  aghast.  "Richard 
Hare!     Is  he  mad?" 

"It  is  not  a  very  sane  proceeding.  He  wants  money 
from  his  mother,  and  Mrs.  Hare  sent  Barbara  to  ask 
me  to  manage  it  for  her.  No  wonder  poor  Barbara 
was  flurried  and  nervous,  for  there's  danger  on  all 
sides." 

"Is  he  at  their  house?" 

"How  could  he  be  there  and  his  father  in  it?  He  is 
hiding  two  or  three  miles  off,  disguised  as  a  laborer, 
and  will  be'  at  the  Grove  to-night  to  receive  this  money. 
I  have  invited  the  justices  to  get  Mr.  Hare  safe  away 
from  his  own  house.  If  he  saw  Richard  he  would 
undoubtedly  give  him  up  to  justice,  and — putting 
graver  considerations  aside — that  would  be  pleasant 
neither  for  you  nor  for  me.  To  have  a  connection 
gibbeted  for  a  willful  murder  would  be  an  ugly  blot 
on  the  Carlyle  escutcheon,  Cornelia." 

Miss  Carlyle  sat  in  silence  revolving  the  news,  a 
contraction  on  her  ample  brow.  "And  now  you  know 
all,  Cornelia,  and  I  do  beg  you  to  leave  me.  for  I  am 
overwhelmed  with  work  to-day." 


CHAPTER  VI 

RICHARD   HARE,    THE  YOUNGER 

The  bench  of  justices  met  by  appointment  at  seven 
o'clock  at  Miss  Carlyle's,  one  following  closely  upon 
the  heels  of  another.  The  reader  may  dissent  from 
the  expression,  "Miss  Carlyle's,"  but  it  is  the  correct 
one,  for  the  house  was  hers,  not  her  brother's;  though 
it  remained  his  home,  as  it  had  been  in  his  father's 


32  EAST  LYNNE 

time,  the  home  was  among  the  property  bequeathed 
to  Miss  Carlyle. 

At  eight  o'clock  a  servant  entered  the  room  and 
addressed  his  master. 

Mr.  Carlyle  rose,  and  came  back  with  an  open  note 
in  his  hand. 

*'I  am  sorry  to  find  that  I  must  leave  you  for  half 
an  hour;  some  important  business  has  arisen,  but  I 
will  be  back  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"Who  has  sent  for  you?"  immediately  demanded 
Miss  Corny. 

He  gave  her  a  quiet  look,  which  she  interpreted 
into  a  warning  not  to  question.  "Mr.  Dill  is  here, 
and  will  join  you  to  talk  the  affair  over,"  he  said  to 
his  guests.  "He  knows  the  law  better  than  I  do;  but 
I  will  not  be  long." 

He  quitted  his  house,  and  walked  with  a  rapid  step 
toward  the  Grove.  The  moon  was  bright,  as  on  the 
previous  evening.  After  he  had  left  the  town  behind 
him,  and  was  passing  the  scattered  villas  already  men- 
tioned, he  cast  an  involuntary  glance  at  the  wood, 
which  rose  behind  them  on  his  left  hand.  It  was 
called  Abbey  Wood,  from  the  circumstance  that  in  old 
days  an  abbey  had  stood  in  its  vicinit}^  all  traces  of 
which,  save  tradition,  had  passed  away.  There  was 
one  small  house  or  cottage,  just  within  the  wood,  and 
in  that  cottage  had  occurred  the  murder  for  which 
Richard  Hare's  life  was  in  jeopardy.  It  was  no  longer 
occupied,  for  nobody  would  rent  it  or  live  in  it. 

Mr.  Carlyle  opened  the  gate  of  the  Grove,  and 
glanced  at  the  trees  on  either  side  of  him,  but  he 
neither  saw  nor  heard  any  signs  of  Richard's  being 
concealed  there.  Barbara  was  at  the  window,  looking 
out,  and  she  came  herself  and  opened  the  door  to  Mr 
Carlyle. 

"Mamma  is  in  the  most  excited  state,"  she  whis- 
pered to  him  as  he  entered.  "I  knew  how  it  would 
be." 

"Has  he  come  yet?" 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it;  but  he  has  made  no  sis'nal  " 


EAST  LYNNE  33 

3lrs.  Hare,  feverish  and  agitated,  with  a  burning 
spot  on  her  delicate  cheeks,  stood  by  the  chair,  not 
occupying  it.  Mr.  Carlyle  placed  a  pocketbook  in  her 
hands.  "I  have  brought  it  chiefly  in  notes,"  he  said; 
"they  will  be  easier  for  him  to  carry  than  gold." 

Mrs.  Hare  answered  only  by  a  look  of  gratitude,  and 
clasped  Mr.  Carlyle's  hand  in  both  hers.  "Archibald, 
t  must  see  my  boy;  how  can  it  be  managed?  Must  I 
go  into  the  garden  to  him,  or  may  he  come  in  here?" 

*'I  think  he  might  come  in;  you  know  how  very  bad 
the  night  air  is  for  you._  Are  the  servants  much  astir 
this  evening?" 

"Things  seemed  to  have  turned  out  quite  kindly," 
spoke  up  Barbara.  "It  happens  to  be  Annie's  birth- 
day, so  mamma  sent  me  just  now  into  the  kitchen  with 
a  cake  and  a  bottle  of  wine,  desiring  them  to  drink 
liei  health.  I  shut  the  door  and  told  them  to  make 
themselves  comfortable;  that  if  we  wanted  anything 
we  would  ring," 

"Then  they  are  safe,"  observed  Mr,  Carlyle,  "and 
Richard  may  come  in," 

"I  will  go  and  ascertain  whether  he  is  come,"  said 
Barbara. 

"Stay  where  you  are,  Barbara;  I  will  go  myself," 
interposed  Mr,  Carlyle.  "Have  the  door  open  when 
you  see  us  coming  up  the  path."  Barbara  gave  a 
faint  cry,  and,  trembling,  clutched  the  arm  of  Mr. 
Carlyle,  "There  he  is!  See!  standing  out  from  the 
trees,  just  opposite  this  window." 

Mr.  Carlyle  turned  to  Mrs.  Hare.  "I  shall  not  bring 
him  in  immediately ;  for  if  I  am  to  have  an  interview 
with  him,  it  must  be  got  over  first,  that  I  may  go 
back  home  to  the  justices,  and  keep  Mr.  Hare  all  safe. " 

He  proceeded  on  his  way,  gained  the  trees,  and 
plunged  into  them;  and,  leaning  against  one,  stood 
Richard  Hare.  Apart  from  his  disguise,  and  the  false 
and  fierce  black  whiskers,  he  was  a  blue-eyed,  fair, 
pleasant-looking  young  man,  slight  and  of  middle 
height,  and  quite  as  yielding  and  gentle  as  his  mother. 
Brains  he  certainly  had.  but  they  were  not  sharp  ones. 

3  Lynne 


^4  £-Abi     IwIAiNC 

*'Is  my  mother  coming  out  to  me^"  asked  Richard, 
after  a  /ew  interchanged  sentences  with  Mr.  Carlyle. 
"No.  You  are  to  go  indoors.  Your  father  is  away, 
and  the  servants  are  shut  up  in  the  kitchen  and  will 
not  see  you.  Though  if  they  did,  they  could  never 
recognize  you  in  that  trim.  A  fine  pair  of  whiskers, 
Richard." 

"Let  us  go  in,  then.  I  am  all  in  a  twitter  till  I  get 
away.     Am  I  to  have  the  money?" 

"Yes,  yes.  But,  Richard,  your  sister  says  you  wish 
to  disclose  to  me  the  true  history  of  that  lamentable 
night.     You  had  better  speak  while  we  are  here." 

"It  was  Barbara  herself  wanted  you  to  hear  it.  I 
think  it  of  little  moment.  If  the  whole  place  heard 
the  truth  from  me,  it  would  do  no  good,  for  1  should 
get  no  relief — not  even  from  you." 

"Try  me,  Richard,  in  as  few  words  as  possible." 

"Well,  there  was  a  row  at  home  about  my  going  so 
much  to  Hallijohn's.  The  governor  and  my  mother 
thought  I  went  after  Afy ;  perhaps  I  did,  and  perhaps 
I  didn't.  Hallijohn  had  asked  me  to  lend  him  my 
gun,  and  that  evening,  when  I  went  to  see  Af— when 
1  went  to  see  some  one — never  mind " 

"Richard,"  interrupted  Mr.  Carlyle,  "there's  an  old 
saying,  and  it  is  sound  advice:  'Tell  the  whole  truth 
to  your  lawyer  and  your  doctor. '  If  I  am  to  judge 
whether  anything  can  be  attempted  for  you,  you  must 
tell  it  to  me ;  otherwise,  I  would  rather  hear  nothing. 
It  shall  be  sacred  trust." 

"Then,  if  I  must,  I  must,"  returned  the  yielding 
Richard.  "I  did  love  the  girl.  I  would  have  waited 
until  I  was  my  own  master  to  make  her  my  wife, 
though  it  had  been  for  years  and  years.  I  could  not 
do  it,  you  know,  in  the  face  of  my  father's  opposition. " 

"Your  wife?"  rejoined  Mr.  Carlyle,  with  some 
emphasis. 

Richard  looked  surprised.  "Why,  you  don't  sup- 
pose I  meant  anything  else!  I  wouldn't  have  been 
such  a  blackguard." 

*'Well,  go  on,  Richard.      Did  she  return  your  love?" 


EAST  LYNNE  35 

"I  can't  be  certain.  Sometimes  I  thought  she  did, 
sometimes  not ;  she  used  to  play  and  shuffle,  and  she 
liked  too  much  to  be  with — him.  I  would  think  her 
capricious — telling  me  I  must  not  come  this  evening, 
and  I  must  not  come  the  other;  but  1  found  out  they 
were  the  evenings  when  she  was  expecting  him.  We 
were  never  there  together." 

"You  forgot  that  you  have  not  indicated  'him'  by 
any  name,  Richard.     I  am  at  fault." 

Richard  Hare  bent  forward  till  his  black  whiskers 
brushed  Mr.  Carlyle's  shoulder.  "It  was  that  cursed 
Thorn." 

Mr.  Carlyle  remembered  the  name  Barbara  had 
mentioned.  "Who  was  Thorn?  I  never  heard  of 
him." 

"Neither  did  anybody  else,  I  expect,  in  West  Lynne. 
He  took  precious  good  care  of  that.  He  lives  some 
miles  away,  and  used  to  come  over  in  secret." 

"Courting  Afy?" 

"Yes,  he  did  come  courting  her,"  returned  Richard, 
in  a  savage  tone.  "Distance  was  no  barrier.  He 
would  come  galloping  over  at  dusk,  tie  his  horse  to  a 
tree  in  the  wood,  and  pass  an  hour  or  two  with  Afy. 
In  the  house,  when  her  father  was  not  at  home;  roam- 
ing about  the  woods  with  her,  when  he  was." 

"Come  to  the  point,  Richard — to  the  evening.*' 

"Hallijohn's  gun  was  out  of  order,  and  he  requested 
the  loan  of  mine.  I  had  made  an  appointment  with 
Afy  to  be  at  her  house  that  evening,  and  I  went  down 
after  dinner,  carrying  the  gun  with  me.  My  father 
called  after  me  to  know  where  I  was  going;  I  said,  out 
with  young  Beauchamp,  not  caring  to  meet  his  opposi- 
tion; and  the  lie  told  against  me  at  the  inquest.  When 
1  reached  Hallijohn's,  going  the  back  way  along  the 
fields,  and  through  the  wood-path,  as  I  generally  did 
go,  Afy  came  out,  all  reserve,  as  she  could  be  at  times, 
and  said  she  was  unable  to  receive  me  then,  that  1 
must  go  back  home.  We  had  a  few  words  about  it, 
and  as  we  were  speaking,  Locksley  passed,  and  saw  me 
with  the  gun  in  my  hand;  but  it  ended  in  my  giving 


36  EAST  LYNNE 

way.  She  could  do  just  what  she  liked  with  me,  for  i 
loved  the  very  ground  she  trod  on.  I  gave  her  the 
gun,  telling  her  it  was  loaded,  and  she  took  it  indoors, 
shutting  me  out.  I  did  not  go  away;  I  had  a  suspi- 
cion that  she  had  got  Thorn  there,  though  she  denied 
it  to  me  ;  and  I  hid  myself  in  some  trees  near  the  house. 
Again  Locksley  came  in  view  and  saw  me  there,  and 
called  out  to  know  why  I  was  hiding.  I  shied  further 
off  and  did  not  answer  him — what  were  my  private 
movements  to  him? — and  that  also  told  against  me  at 
the  inquest.  Not  long  afterward — twenty  minutes, 
])er:iaps — I  heard  a  shot,  which  seemed  to  be  in  the 
direction  of  the  cottage.  'Somebody  having  a  late 
pop  at  the  partridges,'  thought  I;  for  the  sun  was  then 
setting,  and  at  the  moment  I  saw  Bethel  emerge  from 
the  trees,  and  run  in  the  direction  of  the  cottage.  That 
was  the  shot  that  killed  Hallijohn." 

Th.  re  was  a  pause.  Mr.  Carlyle  looked  keenly  at 
Richard  Hare  in  the  moonlight.  "Very  soon,  almost 
in  the  same  minute,  as  it  seemed,  some  one  cam.e 
panting  and  tearing  along  the  path  leading  from  the 
cottage.  It  was  Thorn.  His  appearance  startled  me; 
I  had  never  seen  a  man  show  more  utter  terror.  His 
face  was  livid,  his  eyes  seemed  starting,  and  his  lips 
were  drawn  back  from  his  teeth.  Had  I  been  a  strong 
man,  I  should  surely  have  attacked  him.  I  was  mad 
with  jealousy;  for  I  then  saw  that  Afy  had  sent  me 
away  that  she  might  entertain  him." 

''I  thought  you  said  this  Thorn  never  came  but  at 
dusk?"  observed  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"I  never  knew  him  to  do  so  until  that  evening.  All 
I  can  say  is,  he  was  there  then.  He  flew  along 
swiftly,  and  I  afterward  heard  tne  sound  of  his  horse's 
hoofs  galloping  away.  I  wondered  what  was  up  that 
he  should  look  so  scared,  and  scatted  away  as  though 
the  deuce  was  after  him ;  I  wondered  whether  he  had 
quarreled  with  Af5^  1  ran  to  the  house,  leaped  up 
the  two  steps,  and— Carlyle— I  fell  over  the  prostrate 
body  of  Hallijohn!  He  was  lying  just  within,  on  the 
kitchen  floor,  dead.     Blood  was  round  about  him,  and 


EAST  LYNNE  37 

my  gun,  just  discharged,  was  thrown  near.  He  had 
been  shot  in  the  side." 

Richard  stopped  for  breath.  Mr.  Carlyle  did  not 
speak. 

"I  called  to  Afy.  No  one  answered.  No  one  was 
in  the  lower  room,  and  it  seemed  that  no  one  was  in 
the  upper.  A  sort  of  panic  came  over  me — a  fear. 
You  know  they  always  said  at  home  I  was  a  coward;  I 
could  not  have  remained  another  minute  with  that 
dead  man  had  it  been  to  save  my  own  life.  I  caught 
up  the  gun,  and  was  m.aking  off,  when " 

*'Why  did  you  catch  up  the  gun?"  interrupted  Mr. 
Carlyle. 

"Ideas  pass  through  our  minds  quicker  than  v/e  can 
speak  them,  especially  in  those  sort  of  moments,"  was 
the  reply  of  Richard  Hare.  "Some  vague  notion 
flashed  on  my  brain  that  my  gun  ought  not  to  be 
found  near  the  murdered  body  of  Hallijohn.  I  was 
flying  from  the  door,  I  say,  when  Locksley  emerged 
from  the  wood,  full  in  view ;  and  what  possessed  me  I 
can't  tell,  but  I  did  the  worst  thing  I  could — flung  the 
gun  indoors  again,  and  got  away,  although  Locksley 
called  after  me  to  stop." 

"Nothing  told  against  you  so  much  as  that,  "observed 
Mr.  Carlyle.  "Locksley  deposed  that  he  had  seen  you 
leave  the  cottage,  gun  in  hand,  apparently  in  great 
commotion;  that  the  moment  you  sav/ him  you  hesi- 
tated, as  from  fear;  flung  back  the  gun,  and  escaped." 

Richard  stamped  his  foot.  "Ay;  and  all  owing  to 
my  cursed  cowardice.  They  had  better  have  made  a 
woman  of  me,  and  brought  me  up  in  petticoats.  But 
let  me  go  on.  I  came  upon  Bethel.  He  was  standing 
in  the  half-circle  where  the  trees  have  been  cut.  Now 
I  knew  that  Bethel,  if  he  had  gone  straight  in  the 
direction  of  the  cottage,  must  have  met  Thorn  quit- 
ting it.  'Did  you  encounter  that  hound?'  1  asked 
him.  'What  hound?'  returned  Bethel.  'That  fine  fel- 
low, that  Thorn,  who  comes  after  Afy,'  I  answered, 
for  I  did  not  mind  mentioning  her  name  in  my  pas- 
sion.    *I  don't  know   any   Thorn,'   returned    Bethiel, 


38  EAST  LYNNE 

'and  I  did  not  know  anybody  was  after  Afy  but  your- 
self.' *Did  you  hear  a  shot?'  I  went  on.  'Yes,  I  did/ 
he  replied;  'I  suppose  it  was  Locksley,  for  he's  about 
this  evening.'  'And  1  saw  you,'  I  continued,  'just  at 
the  moment  the  shot  was  fired,  turn  round  the  corner 
in  the  direction  of  Hallijohn's. '  'So  I  did,'  he  said, 
'but  only  to  strike  into  the  wood  a  few  paces  up. 
What's  your  drift?'  'Did  you  not  encounter  Thorn, 
running  from  the  cottage?'  I  persisted.  'I  have 
encountered  no  one,'  he  said,  'and  I  don't  believe  any- 
body's about  but  ourselves  and  Locksley.'  1  quitted 
him,  and  came  off,"  concluded  Richard  Hare.  "He 
evidently  had  not  seen  Thorn,  and  knew  nothing." 

"And  you  decamped  the  same  night,  Richard;  it  was 
a  fatal  step." 

"Yes,  1  was  a  fool.  I  thought  I'd  wait  quiet,  and 
see  how  things  turned  out;  but  you  don't  know  all. 
Three  or  four  hours  later  I  went  to  the  cottage  again, 
and  I  managed  to  get  a  minute's  speech  with  Afy.  I 
never  shall  forget  it;  before  I  could  say  a  syllable  she 
flew  out  at  me,  accusing  me  of  being  the  murderer  of 
her  father,  and  she  fell  into  hysterics  out  there  on  the 
grass.  The  noise  brought  people  from  the  house — 
plenty  were  in  it  then — and  I  retreated.  'If  she  can 
think  me  guilty,  the  world  will  think  me  guilty,'  was 
my  argument;  and  that  night  I  went  right  off,  to  stop 
in  hiding  for  a  day  or  two,  till  I  saw  my  way  clear. 
It  never  came  near;  the  coroner's  inquest  sat,  and 
the  verdict  floored  me  over.  And  Afy — but  I  won't 
accuse  her — fanned  the  flame  against  me  by  denying 
that  any  one  had  been  there  that  night.  'She  had 
been  at  home,'  she  said,  'and  had  strolled  out  at  the 
back  door,  to  the  path  that  led  from  West  Lynne,  and 
was  lingering  there  when  she  heard  a  shot.  Five  min- 
utes afterward  she  returned  to  the  house,  and  found 
Locksley  standing  over  her  dead  father." 

Mr.  Carlyle  remained  silent,  rapidly  running  over 
in  his  mind  the  chief  points  of  Richard  Hare's  com- 
munication. "Four  of  you,  as  I  understand  it,  were 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  cottage  that  night,  and  from  one 


EAST  LYNNE  3& 

or  the  other 'the  shot  no  doubt  proceeded.  You  were 
at  a  distance  you  say,  Richard;  Bethel,  also,  could 
not  have  been " 

' '  It  was  not  Bethel  who  did  it, ' '  interrupted  Richard ; 
"it  was  an  impossibility.  I  saw  him,  as  I  tell  you,  in 
the  same  moment  that  the  gun  was  fired. " 

"But  now,  where  was  Locksley?" 

"It  is  equally  impossible  that  it  could  have  been 
Locksley.  He  was  within  my  view  at  the  time,  at 
right  angles  from  me,  deep  in  the  wood,  away  from 
the  paths  altogether.  It  was  Thorn  did  the  deed, 
beyond  all  doubt,  and  the  verdict  ought  to  have  been 
wilful  murder  against  him.,  Carl3^1e,  I  see  you  don't 
believe  my  story!" 

"What  you  say  has  startled  me,  and  I  must  take 
time  to  consider  whether  I  believe  it  or  not,"  said  Mr. 
Carlyle,  in  his  straightforward  manner.  "The  most 
singular  thing  is,  if  you  witnessed  this  Thorn  running 
from  the  cottage  in  the  manner  5^ou  describe,  that  you 
did  not  come  forward  and  denounce  him." 

"I  didn't  do  it,  because  I  was  a  fool,  a  weak  coward, 
as  I  have  been  all  my  life,"  rejoined  Richard.  "I 
can't  help  it,  it  was  born  with  me,  and  will  go  with 
me  to  my  grave.  What  would  my  word  have  availed 
that  it  was  Thorn,  when  there  was  nobody  to  corrob- 
orate it?  And  the  discharged  gun  mine,  was  damna- 
tory proof  against  me." 

"Another  thing  strikes  me  as  curious, "  cried  Mr. 
Carlyle.  "If  this  man.  Thorn,  was  in  the  habit  of 
coming  to  West  Lynne,  evening  after  evening,  how 
was  it  that  he  never  was  observed?  This  is  the  first 
time  I  have  heard  any  stranger's  name  mentioned  in 
connection  with  the  affair,  or  with  Afy. " 

"Thorn  chose  by-roads,  and  he  never  came,  save 
that  once,  but  at  dusk  and  dark.  It  was  evident  to 
me  at  the  time  that  he  was  striving  to  do  it  on  the 
secret.  I  told  Afy  so,  and  that  it  augured  no  good  for 
her.  You  are  not  attaching  credit  to  what  I  say,  and 
it  is  only  as  I  expected;  nevertheless,  I  swear  that  I 
have   related  the  facts.      As  surely  as    that    we — I, 


40  EAST  LYNNE 

Thorn,  Afy  and  Hallijohn,  must  one  day  meet  together 
before  our  Maker,  I  have  told  you  the  truth." 

The  words  were  solemn,  their  tone  earnest,  and  Mr. 
Carlyle  remained  silent,  his  thoughts  full. 

"To  what  end,  else,  should  I  say  this?"  went  on 
Richard.  "It  can  do  me  no  service;  all  the  assertion 
I  could  put  forth  would  not  go  a  jot  toward  clearing 
me." 

"No,  it  would  not,"  assented  Mr.  Carlyle.  "If  ever 
you  are  cleared,  it  must  be  by  proofs.  But — I  will 
keep  my  thoughts  on  the  matter,  and  should  anything 
arise — ^—     What  sort  of  a  man  was  this  Thorn?" 

"In  age  he  might  be  three  or  four-and-twenty,  tall 
and  slender;  an  out-and-out  aristocrat." 

"And  his  connections?     Where  did  he  live?" 

"I  never  knew.  Afy,  in  her  boasting  way,  would 
say  he  had  to  come  from  Swainson,  a  ten-mile  ride." 

"From  Swainson?"  quickly  interrupted  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"Could  it  be  one  of  the  Thorns  of  Swainson?" 

"None  of  the  Thorns  that  I  know.  He  was  a  totally 
different  sort  of  man,  with  his  perfumed  hands,  and 
his  rings,  and  his  dainty  gloves.  That  he  was  an 
aristocrat  I  believe,  but  of  bad  taste  and  style,  dis- 
playing a  profusion  of  jewelry."  A  half  smile  flitted 
over  IMr.  Carlyle's  face. 

"Was  it  real,  Richard?" 

"It  was.  He  would  wear  diamond  shirt  studs, 
diamond  rings,  diamond  pins;  brilliants,  all  of  the 
first  water.  My  impression  was  that  he  put  them  on 
to  dazzle  Afy.  She  told  me  once  that  she  could  be  a 
grander  lady,  if  she  chose,  than  I  could  ever  make 
her.  *A  ladyon^the  cross,'  I  answered,  'but  never  on 
the  squareT^riiofn  was  not  a  man  to  entertain  honest 
intentions  to  one  in  the  station  of  Afy  Hallijohn;  but 
girls  are  as  simple  as  geese." 

"By  your  description,  it  could  not  have  been  one  of 
the  Thorns  of  Swainson.  Wealthy  tradesmen,  fathers 
of  young  families,  short,  stout  and  heavy  as  Dutch- 
men, staid  and  most  respectable.  Very  unlikely  men 
are  they  to  run  into  an  expedition  of  that  sort." 


EAST  Li^NNE  41 

*'What  expedition?"  questioned  Richard.  "The 
murder?" 

*'The  riding  after  Afy.      Richard,  where  is  Afy?" 

Richard  Hare  lifted  his  eyes  in  surprise.  "How 
should  I  know?     I  was  just  going  to  ask  you." 

Mr.  Carlyle  paused.  He  thought  Richard's  answer 
an  evasive  one.  "She  disappeared  immediately  after 
the  funeral;  and  it  was  thought — in  short,  Richard,  the 
neighborhood  gave  her  credit  for  having  gone  after 
and  joined  you." 

"No!  did  they?  What  a  pack  of  idiots!  I  have 
never  seen  or  heard  of  her,  Carlyle,  since  that  unfortu- 
nate night.  If  she  went  after  anybody,  it  was  after 
Thorn." 

"Was  the  man  good-looking?" 

"I  suppose  the  world  would  call  him  so.  Afy 
thought  such  an  Adonis  had  never  been  coined  out  of 
fable.  He  had  shiny  black  hair  and  whiskers,  dark 
eyes  and  handsome  features.  But  his  vain  dandyism 
spoilt  him;  would  you  believe  that  his  handkerchiefs 
were  soaked  in  scent?  They  were  of  the  finest  cam- 
bric, silky  as  a  hair,  as  fine  as  the  one  Barbara  bought 
at  Lynneborough  and  gave  a  guinea  for;  only  hers  had 
a  wreath  of  embroidery  around  it." 

Mr.  Carlyle  could  ascertain  no  more  particulars,  and 
it  was  time  Richard  Vv^ent  indoors.  He  left  the  poor 
banned  exile  to  his  short  interview  with  his  hysterical 
and  tearful  mother,  Richard  nearly  as  hysterical  as 
she,  and  made  the  best  of  his  way  home  again. 

The  magistrates  made  a  good  evening  of  it,  Mr. 
Carlyle  entertaining  them  to  supper,  mutton  chops 
and  bread  and  cheese.  They  took  up  their  pipes  for 
another  whiff  when  the  meal  was  over,  but  Miss  Car- 
lyle retired  to  bed ;  the  smoke,  to  which  she  had  not 
been  accustomed  since  her  father's  death,  had  made 
her  head  ache  and  her  eyes  smart.  AlDOUt  eleven 
they  wished  Mr.  Carlyle  good-night  and  departed,  but 
Mr.  Dill,  in  obedience  to  a  nod  from  his  superior, 
remained. 

*'Sit  down  again  a  moment,  Dill;   I  want  to  ask  you 


42  EAST  LYNNE 

a  question.  You  are  intimate  with  the  Thorns,  of 
Swainson;  do  they  happen  to  have  any  relative,  a 
nephew  or  cousin,  perhaps,  a  dandy  young  fellow?" 

''I  went  over  last  Sunday  fortnight  to  spend  the  day 
with  young  Jacob,"  was  the  answer  of  Mr.  Dill,  one 
wider  from  the  point  than  he  generally  gave.  Mr. 
Carlyle  smiled. 

"Young  Jacob!     He  must  be  forty,  I  suppose." 

"About  that.  But  you  and  1  estimate  age  differ- 
ently, Mr.  Archibald.  They  have  no  nephew;  the  old 
man  never  had  but  those  two  children,  Jacob  and 
Edward.  Neither  have  they  any  cousin.  Rich  men 
they  are  growing  now.   Jacob  has  set  up  his  carriage.  " 

Mr.  Carlyle  mused,  but  he  expected  the  answer,  for 
neither  had  he  heard  of  the  brothers  Thorn,  tanners, 
curriers  and  leather  dressers,  possessing  a  relative  of 
the  name.  "Dill,"  said  he,  "something  has  arisen, 
which,  in  my  mind,  casts  a  doubt  upon  Richard  Hare's 
guilt.  I  question  v/hether  he  had  anything  to  do  with 
the  murder. " 

Mr.  Dill  opened  his  eyes.  "But  his  flight,  Mr. 
Archibald?     And  his  stopping  away?" 

"Suspicious  circumstances,  I  grant.  Still,  I  have 
good  cause  to  doubt.  At  the  time  it  happened,  some 
dandy  fellow  used  to  come  courting  Afy  Hallijohn  in 
secret;  a  tall,  slender  man,  as  he  is  described  to  me, 
bearing  the  name  of  Thorn,  and  living  at  Swainson. 
Could  it  have  been  one  of  the  Thorn  family?" 

"Mr.  Archibald!"  remonstrated  the  old  clerk;  "as 
if  those  two  respected  gentlemen,  with  their  wives  and 
babies,  would  come  sneaking  after  that  flyaway  Afy!" 

"No  reflection  on  them,"  returned  Mr.  Carlyle. 
"This  was  a  young  man,  three  or  four-and-twenty,  a 
head  taller  than  either.  I  thought  it  might  be  a  rela- 
tive." 

"I  have  repeatedly  heard  them  say  that  they  are 
alone  in  the  world;  that  they  are  the  two  last  of  the 
name.  Depend  upon  it,  it  was  nobody  connected  with 
them,"  and  wishing  Mr.  Carlyle  good-night,  he 
departed. 


EAST  LYNNE  43 

The  servant  came  in  to  remove  the  glasses  and  the 
obnoxious  pipes.  Mr.  Carlyle  sat  in  a  brown  study; 
presently  he  looked  round  at  the  man. 

"Is  Joyce  gone  to  bed?" 

"No,  sir.     She  is  just  going." 

"Send  her  here  when  you  have  taken  away  those 
things." 

Joyce  came  in — the  upper  servant  at  Miss  Carlyle's. 
She  was  of  middle  height,  and  would  never  see  five- 
and- thirty  again;  her  forehead  was  broad,  her  gray 
eyes  were  deeply  set,  and  her  face  was  pale.  Alto- 
gether she  was  plain,  but  sensible-looking.  Shgj^a^ 
tJie-half-^isleiLi^i-Af  y^  Halli  j  oh  n . 

"Shut  the  door,  Joyce." 

Joyce  did  as  she  was  bid,  came  forward,  and  stood 
by  the  table. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  from  your  sister,  Joyce?" 
began  Mr.  Carlyle,  somevv^hat  abruptly.  ' '  No,  sir, '  *  was 
the  reply;  "I  think  it  would  be  a  wonder  if  I  did  hear. " 

"Why  so?" 

"If  she  could  go  off  with  Richard  Hare,  who  had 
sent  her  father  into  his  grave,  she  would  be  more 
likely  to  hide  herself  and  her  doings  than  to  proclaim 
them  to  me,  sir." 

"Who  was  that  other,  that  fine  gentleman,  who  came 
after  her?" 

The  color  mantled  in  Joyce's  cheeks,  and  she 
dropped  her  voice. 

"Sir!  did  you  hear  of  him?" 

"Not  at  that  time.  Since.  He  came  from  Swain- 
son,  did  he  not?" 

"I  believe  so,  sir.  Afy  never  would  say  much  about 
him.  We  did  not  agree  upon  the  point.  I  said  a  per- 
son of  his  rank  would  do  her  no  good;  and  Afy  flew 
out  when  I  spoke  against  him." 

Mr.  Carlyle  caught  her  up.  "His  rank.  What  his 
rank?" 

"Afy  bragged  of  his  being  next  door  to  a  lord;  and 
he  looked  like  it.  I  only  saw  him  once;  I  had  gone 
home  early,  and  there  sat  him  and  Afy.       His  white 


44  l^AST  LYNNE 

hands  were  all  glittering  with  rings,  and  his  shirt  was 
finished  off  with  shining  stones  where  the  buttons 
ought  to  be." 

"Have  you  seen  him  since?" 

''Never  since,  never  but  once;  and  I  don't  think  I 
should  know  him  if  1  did  see  him.  He  got  up,  sir,  as 
soon  as  I  went  into  the  parlor,  shook  hands  with  Afy, 
and  left.  A  fine,  upright  man  he  was,  nearly  as  tall  as 
you  are,  sir,  but  very  slim.  Those  soldiers  always 
carry  themselves  well." 

"How  do  you  know  he  was  a  soldier?"  quickly 
rejoined  Mr.  Carlyle.  "Afy  told  me  so.  *The  captain,' 
she  used  to  call  him ;  but  she  said  he  was  not  a  captain 
yet  awhile — the  next  grade  to  it — a— a " 

"Lieutenant?"  suggested  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"Yes,  sir,  that  was  it — Lieutenant  Thorn." 

"Joyce,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle,  "has  it  never  struck  you 
that  Afy  is  more  likely  to  have  followed  Lieutenant 
Thorn  than  Richard  Hare?" 

"No,  sir,"  answered  Joyce.  "I  have  felt  certain 
always  that  she  is  with  Richard  Hare,  and  nothing  can 
turn  me  from  the  belief.  All  West  Lynne  is  convinced 
of  it." 

Mr.  Carlyle  did  not  attempt  to  "turn  her  from  her 
belief."  He  dismissed  her,  and  sat  on,  still  revolving 
the  case  in  all  its  bearings. 

Richard  Hare's  short  interview  with  his  mother 
had  soon  terminated.  It  lasted  but  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  both  dreading  interruptions  from  the  servants; 
and  with  a  hundred  pounds  in  his  pocket,  and  desola- 
tion at  his  heart,  the  ill-fated  young  man  once  more 
quitted  his  childhood's  home.  Mrs.  Hare  and  Barbara 
watched  him  steal  down  the  path  in  the  tell-tale  moon- 
light, and  gain  the  road,  both  feeling  that  those  fare- 
well kisses  they  had  pressed  upon  his  lips  would  not  be 
renewed  for  years,  and  might  not  be  forever. 


EAST  LYNNE  45 


CHAPTER  VII 
EAST   LYNNE 'S   GUEST 

The  church  clocks  at  West  Lynae  struck  eight  one 
lovely  morning  in  July,  and  then  the  bells  chimed 
out,  giving  token  that  it  was  Sunday. 

East  Lynne  had  changed  owners,  and  now  it  was 
the  property  of  Mr.  Carlyle.  He  had  bought  it  as  it 
stood,  furniture  and  all;  but  the  transfer  had  been 
conducted  with  secrecy,  and  was  suspected  by  none 
save  those  engaged  in  the  negotiations.  Whether 
Lord  Mount  Severn  thought  it  might  prevent  any  one 
getting  on  the  scent,  or  whether  he  wished  to  take 
farewell  of  a  place  he  had  formerly  been  fond  of,  cer- 
tain it  is  that  he  craved  a  week  or  two's  visit  to  it. 
Mr.  Carlyle  most  readily  and^  graciously  acquiesced ; 
and  the  earl,  his  daughter  and  retinue,  had  arrived  the 
previous  day. 

West  Lynne  was  in  ecstasies.  It  called  itself  an 
aristocratic  place,  and  it  indulged  hopes  that  the  earl 
might  be  intending  to  confer  permanently  the  light  of 
his  presence  by  taking  up  his  residence  again  at  East 
Lynne.  The  toilets  prepared  to  meet  his  admiring 
eyes  were  prodigious,  and  pretty  Barbara  Hare  was 
not  the  only  young  lady  who  had  thereby  to  encounter 
the  paternal  storm. 

Barbara  was  to  sit  in  the  Carlyle  pew  that  day,  for 
she  thought  the  further  she  was  off  the  justice  the 
better;  there  was  no  knowing  but  he  might  take  a 
sly,  revengeful  cut  at  the  feather  in  the  middle  of  serv- 
ice, and  so  dock  its  beauty.  Scarcely  were  they 
seated  when  some  strangers  came  quietly  up  the  aisle 
— a  gentleman  who  limped  as  he  walked,  with  a  fur 
rowed  brow  and  gray  hair,  and  a  young  lady.  Bar 
bara  looked  round  with  eagerness,  but  looked  away 
again;    they  could  not  be  the  expected  slrargers,  the 


46  EAST  LYNNE 

young  lady's  dress  was  too  plain — a  clear-looking 
muslin  dress  with  some  lilac  sprigs  upon  it,  and  a 
straw  bonnet.  Miss  Corny  might  have  dressed  herself 
so  on  a  week  day,  and  not  have  found  herself  too 
smart;  but  it  was  a  pleasant  dress  for  a  hot  summer's 
day.  But  the  old  beadle,  in  his  many-caped  coat,  was 
walking  before  them  sideways  with  his  marshaling 
baton,  and  he  marshaled  them  into  the  East  Lynne 
pew,  unoccupied  for  so  many  years. 

"Who  in  the  world  can  they  be?"  whispered  Barbara 
to  Miss  Carlyle.  "That  old  stupid  is  always  making 
a  mistake  and  putting  people  into  the  wrong  places." 

"The  earl  and  Lady  Isabel." 

The  color  flushed  into  Barbara's  face,  and  she  stared 
at  Miss  Corny.  "Why,  she  has  no  silks  and  no 
feathers,  and  no  anything!"  cried  Barbara.  "She's 
plainer  than  anybody  in  the  church!" 

"Plainer  than  any  of  the  fine  ones — than  you,  for 
instance.  The  earl  is  much  altered,  but  I  should  have 
known  them  both  anywhere.  I  should  have  knov/n 
her  from  her  likeness  to  her  poor  mother — just  the 
same  eyes  and  sweet  expression." 

Ay,  those  brown  eyes,  so  full  of  sweetness  and  mel- 
ancholy; few  who  had  once  seen  could  mistake  or  for- 
get them;  and  Barbara  Hare,  forgetting  where  she 
was,  looked  at  them  much  that  day. 

"She  is  very  lovely,"  thought  Barbara,  "and  her 
dress  is  certainly  that  of  a  lady.  I  wish  I  had  not  had 
this  streaming  pink  feather.  What  fine  jackdaws  she 
must  deem  us  all!" 

The  earl's  carriage,  an  open  barouche,  was  waiting 
at  the  gate  at  the  conclusion  of  the  service.  He 
handed  his  daughter  in,  and  was  putting  his  gouty 
foot  upon  the  step  to  follow  her,  when  he  observed 
Mr.  Carlyle.  The  earl  turned  and  held  out  his  hand. 
A  man  who  could  purchase  East  Lynne  was  worthy  of 
being  received  as  an  equal,  though  he  was  but  a 
country  lawyer. 

Mr.  Carlyle  shook  hands  with  the  earl,  approached 
the   carriage,  and  raised  his  hat  to  Lady  Isabel.     She 


EAST  LYNNE  47 

bent  forward  with  her  pleasant  smile,  and  put  her 
hand  into  his. 

"I  have  many  things  to  say  to  you,"  said  the  earl. 
"I  wish  you  would  go  home  with  us.  If  you  have  noth- 
ing better  to  do,  be  East  Lynne's  guest  for  the 
remainder  of  the  day." 

He  smiled  peculiarly  as  he  spoke,  and  Mr.  Carlyle 
echoed  it!  East  Lynne's  guest!  That  is  what  the 
earl  was  at  present.  Mr.  Carlyle  turned  aside  to  tell 
his  sister:  ''Cornelia,  I  shall  not  be  home  to  dinner;  I 
am  going  with  Lord  Mount  Severn.  Good-day,  Bar- 
bara." 

Mr.  Carlyle  stepped  into  the  carriage,  was  followed 
by  the  earl,  and  it  drove  away.  The  sun  shone  still, 
but  the  day's  brightness  had  gone  out  for  Barbara 
Hare. 

*'How  does  he  know  the  earl  so  well?  How  does  he 
know  Lady  Isabel?"  she  reiterated,  in  her  astonish- 
ment. 

"Archibald  knows  something  of  most  people," 
replied  Miss  Corny.  "He  saw  the  earl  frequently, 
when  he  was  in  town  in  the  spring,  and  Lady  Isabel 
once  or  twice.  What  a  lovely  face  hers  is!"  Barbara 
made  no  reply.  She  returned  home  with  Miss  Car- 
lyle, but  her  manner  was  as  absent  as  her  heart,  and 
that  had  nm  away  to  East  Lynne. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
MR.  Kane's  concert 

Before  Lord  Mount  Severn  had  completed  the  fort- 
night of  his  proposed  stay,  the  gout  came  on  seriously. 
It  was  impossible  for  him  to  move  away  from  East 
Lynne.  Mr.  Carlyle  assured  him  he  v/as  only  too 
pleased  that  he  should  remain  as  long  as  might  be 
convenient,  and  the  earl  expressed  his  acknowledg- 
ments; he  hoped  soon  to  be  re-established  on  his  legs. 

But  he  was  not.  The  gout  came  and  the  gout  went 
— not  positively  laying  him  up  in  bed,  but  rendering 


48  EAST  LYNNE 

him  unable  to  leave  his  rooms;  and  this  continued  till 
October,  when  he  grew  mmch  better. 

The  county  families  had  been  neighborly,  calling 
on  the  invalid  earl,  and  occasionally  carrying  off  Lady 
Isabel,  but  his  chief  and  constant  visitor  had  been  Mr. 
Carlyle.  The  earl  had  grown  to  like  him  in  no  com.- 
mon  degree,  and  was  disappointed  if  Mr.  Carlyle  spent 
an  evening  away  from  him,  so  that  he  became,  as  it 
were,  quite  domesticated  with  the  earl  and  Isabel. 

'•I  am  not  quite  equal  to  general  society,"  he 
observed  to  his  daughter,  'and  it  is  considerate  and 
kind  of  Carlyle  to  come  here  and  cheer  my  loneliness." 

*' Extremely  kmd,"  said  Isabel.  "I  like  him  very 
much,  papa." 

"I  don't  know  anybody  that  I  like  half  as  well,"  was 
the  rejoinder  of  the  earl. 

Mr.  Carlyle  went  up,  as  usual,  the  same  evening, 
and,  in  the  course  of  it,  the  earl  asked  Isabel  to  sing. 
•'I  will  if  you  wish^  papa,"  was  the  reply,  "but  the 
piano  is  so  much  out  of  tune  that  it  is  not  pleasant  to 
sing  to  it.  Is  there  any  one  in  West  Lynne  who  could 
come  here  and  tune  my  piano,  Mr.  Carlyle?"  she 
added,  turning-  to  him. 

•'Certainly  there  is.  Kane  would  do  it.  Shall  I 
send  him  to-morrov/?" 

"I  should  be  glad,  if  it  would  not  be  giving  you  too 
much  trouble.  Not  that  tuning  will  benefit  it  greatly, 
old  thing  that  it  is.  Were  we  to  be  much  at  East 
Lynne  I  should  get  papa  to  exchange  it  for  a  good 
one."  Little  thought  Lady  Isabel  that  that  very  piano 
was  Mr.  Carlyle's,  and  not  hers.  The  earl  coughed 
and  exchanged  a  smile  and  a  glance  with  his  guest. 

Mr.  Kane  was  the  organist  of  St.  Jude's  Church,  a 
man  of  embarrassment  and  sorrow,  who  had  long  had 
a  sore  fight  with  the  world.  When  he  arrived  at  East 
Lynne,  the  following  day,  dispatched  by  Mr.  Carlyle, 
Lady  Isabel  happened  to  be  playing,  and  she  stood  by 
and  watched  him  begin  his  work.  She  was  courteous 
and  affable — she  was  so  to  every  one — and  the  poor 
music-master  took  courage  to  speak  of  his  own  affairs, 


EAST  LYNNE  49 

and  to  prefer  a  humble  request — that  she  and  Lord 
Mount  Severn  would  patronize  and  personally  attend 
a  concert  he  was  about  to  give  the  following  week. 

A  scarlet  blush  came  into  his  thin  cheeks  as  he  con- 
fessed that  he  was  very  poor,  could  scarcely  live,  and 
he  was  getting  up  this  concert  in  his  desperate  need. 
If  it  succeeded  well  he  could  then  go  on  again ;  if  not, 
he  should  be  turned  out  of  his  home,  and  his  furniture 
sold  for  the  two  years'  rent  he  owed — and  he  had  seven 
children. 

She  agreed  not  only  to  be  present,  but  to  try  to  get 
others  as  well.  Next  day  she  was  driving  to  West 
Lynne,  when  she  overtook  Mr.  Carlyle.  "I  have  been 
to  Mr.  Kane's  myself  for  the  tickets,"  said  she,  with  a 
beaming  look.  "I  came  into  West  Lynne  on  purpose. 
I  told  the  coachman  to  find  out  where  he  lived,  and  he 
did.  1  thought  if  the  people  saw  me  and  the  carriage 
there,  they  would  guess  what  I  wanted.  I  do  hope  he 
will  have  a  full  concert. " 

"I  am  sure  he  will,"  replied  Mr.  Carlyle,  as  he 
released  her  hand.  And  Lady  Isabel  signed  to  the 
carriage  to  drive  on. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   SONG   AND  THE   DIRGE 

Lady  Isabel  went  alone  to  the  entertainment, 
decked  out  like  a  beauteous  queen.  During  the  con- 
cert a  message  came  that  the  earl  had  grown  alarm- 
ingly worse.  She  left  the  hall  and  hastened  home  in 
company  with  Mr.  Carlyle. 

The  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Mason,  waited  at  the  hall 
door  to  receive  Lady  Isabel.  Mr.  Carlyle  helped  her 
out  of  the  carriage,  and  gave  her  his  arm  up  the  steps. 
She  scarcely  dared  to  inquire. 

*'Is  he  better?     May  I  go  to  his  room?"  she  panted. 

Yes,  the  earl  was  better — better  in  so  far  that  he 
was  quiet  and  senseless.  She  moved  hastily  toward 
the  chamber.     Mr.  Carlyle  drew  the  housekeeper  aside. 

4  Tynne 


50  EAST  LYNNE 

*'Is  there  any  hope?'* 

"Not  the  slightest,  sir— he  is  dying." 

The  earl  knew  no  one;  pain  was  gone  for  the  pres- 
ent, and  he  lay  on  his  bed,  calm;  but  his  face,  which 
had  death  in  it  all  too  plainly,  startled  Isabel.  She 
did  not  scream  or  cry ;  she  was  perfectly  quiet,  save 
that  she  had  a  fit  of  shivering. 

"Will  he  soon  be  better?"  she  whispered  to  Mr. 
Wainwright,  who  stood  there. 

The  surgeon  coughed.  "Well,  he — he — we  must 
hope  it,  my  lady." 

"But  why  does  his  face  look  like  that?  It  is  pale — 
gray;  I  never  saw  anybody  else  look  so." 

"He  has  been  in  great  pain,  my  lady;  and  pain 
leaves  its  traces  on  the  countenance." 

Mr.  Carlyle,  who  had  come,  and  was  standing  by 
the  surgeon,  touched  his  arm  to  draw  him  from  the 
room.  He  noticed  the  look  on  the  earl's  face,  and  did 
not  like  it ;  he  wished  to  question  the  surgeon.  Lady 
Isabel  saw  that  Mr.  Carlyle  was  about  to  quit  the 
room,  and  beckoned  to  him. 

"Do  not  leave  the  house,  Mr.  Carlyle.  When  he 
wakes  up,  it  may  cheer  him  to  see  you  here ;  he  liked 
you  very  much." 

"I  will  not  leave  it,  Lady  Isabel.  I  did  not  think  of 
doing  so. " 

In  time — it  seemed  an  age — the  medical  men  arrived 
from  Lynneborough — three  of  them — the  groom  had 
thought  he  could  not  summon  too  many.  It  was  a 
strange  scene  they  entered  upon;  the  ghastly  peer, 
growing  restless  again  now,  battling  with  his  departing 
spirit,  and  the  gala  robes,  the  sparkling  gems  adorn- 
ing the  young  girl  watching  at  his  side.  They  com- 
prehended the  case  without  difficulty;  that  she  had 
been  suddenly  called  from  some  scene  of  gayety. 

They  stooped  to  look  at  the  earl,  and  felt  his  pulse, 
and  touched  his  heart,  and  exchanged  a  few  murmured 
words  with  Mr.  Wainwright.  Isabel  had  stood  back 
to  give  them  place,  but  her    anxious  eyes  follov/ed 


EAST  LYNNE  51 

their  every  movement.  They  did  not  seem  to  notice 
her,  and  she  stepped  forward. 

"Can  you  do  anything  for  him?     Will  he  recover?" 

They  all  turned  at  the  address,  and  looked  at  her. 
One  spoke;  it  was  an  evasive  answer.  "Tell  me  the 
truth!"  she  implored,  with  feverish  impatience;  "you 
must  not  trifle  with  me.  Do  you  not  know  me?  I  am 
his  only  child,  and  I  am  here  alone." 

The  first  thing  was  to  get  her  away  from  the  room, 
for  the  great  change  was  approaching  and  the  parting 
struggle  between  the  body  and  the  spirit  might  be  one 
of  warfare — no  sight  for  her.  But  in  answer  to  their 
suggestion  that  she  should  go,  she  only  leaned  her  head 
upon  the  pillow  by  her  father,  and  moaned  in  despair. 
"She  must  be  got  out  of  the  room,"  said  one  of  the 
physicians,  in  a  low  tone.  Isabel  heard  the  words, 
and,   turning,  asked: 

"Is  it  really  necessary  that  I  should  leave  the  room 
— necessary  for  him?" 

"It  is  necessary,  my  lady — absolutely  essential." 

She  broke  into  a  passion  of  tears  and  sobs  as  Mr. 
Carlyle  led  her  to  another  apartment.  "He  is  my  dear 
father;  I  have  but  him  in  the  wide  world!"  she 
exclaimed. 

"I  know — I  know;  I  feel  for  you  all  that  you  are 
feeling.  Twenty  times  this  night  I  have  wished — for- 
give me  the  thought — that  you  were  my  sister,  so  that 
I  might  express  my  sympathy  more  freely  and  com- 
fort you. ' ' 

"Tell  me  the  truth,  then,  why  I  am  kept  away.  If 
you  can  show  me  a  sufficient  cause,  I  will  be  reason- 
able and  obey ;  but  do  not  say  again  I  should  be  dis- 
turbing him,  for  it  is  not  true." 

"He  is  too  ill  for  you  to  see  him — his  symptoms  are 
too  painful.  In  fact,  it  would  not  be  proper;  and  were 
you  to  go  in  in  defiance  of  advice,  you  would  regret  it 
all  your  after  life." 

"Is  he  dying?" 

Mr.  Carlyle  hesitated.  Ought  he  to  dissemble  with 
her  as  the  doctors  had  done?      A  strong  feeling  was 


52  EAST  LYNNE 

upon  him  that  he  ought  not.  "I  trust  to  you  not  to 
deceive  me, "  she  simply  said.  "I  fear  he  is — I  believe 
he  is."  She  rose  up — she  grasped  his  arm  in  the  sud- 
den fear  that  flashed  over  her. 

*'You  are  deceiving  me,  and  he  is  dead!" 

*'I  am  not  deceiving  you,  Lady  Isabel.  He  is  not 
dead,  but — it  may  be  very  near." 

She  laid  her  face  down  upon  the  soft  pillow. 

"Going  forever  from  me — going  forever!  Oh,  Mr. 
Carlyle,  let  me  see  him  for  a  minute — just  one  fare- 
well! Will  you  not  try  for  me?"  He  knew  how  hope- 
less it  was,  but  he  turned  to  leave  the  room.  '*I  will 
go  and  see.  But  you  will  remain  here  quietly — you 
will  not  come?" 

She  bowed  her  head  in  acquiescence,  and  he  closed 
the  door.  Had  she  indeed  been  his  sister,  he  would 
probably  have  turned  the  key  upon  her.  He  entered 
the  earl's  chamber,  but  not  many  seconds  did  he 
remain  in  it. 

"It  is  over,"  he  whispered  to  Mrs.  Mason,  whom  he 
met  in  the  corridor,  "and  Mr„  Wainwright  is  asking 
for  you." 

"You  are  soon  back,"  cried  Isabel,  lifting  her  head. 
"May  I  go?"  He  sat  down  and  took  her  hand,  shrink- 
ing from  his  task.  "I  wish  I  could  comfort  you!"  he 
exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  deep  emotion. 

Her  face  turned  a  ghastly  whiteness — as  white  as 
another's  not  far  away.  "Tell  me  the  worst,"  she 
breathed.  "I  have  nothing  to  tell  you  but  the  worst. 
May  God  support  you,  dear  Lady  Isabel ! ' '  She  turned 
to  hide  her  face  and  its  misery  from  him,  and  a  low 
wail  of  anguish  broke  from  her,  telling  its  own  tale  of 
despair. 

The  gray  dawn  of  morning  was  breaking  over  the 
world,  advent  of  another  bustling  day  in  life's  historv; 
but  the  spirit  of  William  Vane,  Earl  of  Mount  Severn, 
had  soared  away  from  it  forever. 


EAST  LYNNE  63 


CHAPTER  X 
THE   KEEPERS   OF   THE   DEAD 

Events  between  the  death  of  Lord  Mount  Severn 
and  his  interment  occurred  quickly;  and  to  one  of  them 
the  reader  may  feel  inclined  to  demur,  as  believing; 
that  it  could  have  no  foundation  in  fact,  in  the  actions 
of  real  life,  but  must  be  a  wild  creation  of  the  author's 
brain.  He  would  be  wrong.  The  author  is  no  more 
fond  of  wild  creations  than  the  reader.  The  circum- 
stance did  take  place. 

The  earl  died  on  Friday  morning  at  daylight.  The 
news  spread  rapidly — it  generally  does  on  the  death  of 
a  peer,  if  he  has  been  of  note  (whether  good  or  bad), 
in  the  world — and  was  known  in  London  before  the 
day  was  over — the  consequence  of  which  was  that  by 
Saturday  morning,  early,  a  shoal  of  what  the  late  peer 
would  have  called  harpies,  had  arrived,  to  surround 
East  Lynne.  There  were  creditors  of  all  sorts;  for 
small  sums  and  for  great,  for  five  or  ten  pounds  up  to 
five  or  ten  thousand.  Some  were  civil,  some  impa- 
tient, some  loud  and  rough  and  angry;  some  came  to 
put  in  executions  on  the  effects,  and  some — to  arrest 
the  body! 

This  last  act  was  accomplished  cleverly.  Two  men, 
each  with  a  remarkable  hooked  nose,  stole  away  from 
the  hubbub  of  the  clamorous,  and  peering  cunningly 
about,  made  their  way  to  the  side  or  tradesman's 
entrance.  A  kitchen-maid  answered  their  gentle 
appeal  at  the  bell. 

''Is  the  coffin  come  yet?"  said  they. 

"Coffin — no!"  was  the  girl's  reply.  "The  shell  ain't 
here  yet.  Mr.  Jones  didn't  promise  that  till  nine 
o'clock,  and  it  haven't  gone  eight." 

"It  won't  be  long,"  quoth  they;  "it's  on  the  road. 


54  EAST  LYNNE 

We'll  go  up  to  his  lordship's  room,  please,  and  be 
getting  ready  for  it." 

The  girl  called  the  butler.  "Two  men  from  Jones, 
the  undertaker's,  sir,"  announced  she.  *'The  shell's 
coming  on,  and  they  want  to  go  up  and  make  ready 
for  it." 

The  butler  marshaled  them  upstairs  himself,  and 
introduced  them  to  the  room.  *'That  will  do,"  said 
they,  as  he  was  about  to  enter  with  them,  "we  won't 
trouble  you  to  wait."  And  closing  the  door  upon  the 
unsuspicious  butler,  they  took  up  their  station  on  either 
side  of  the  dead,  like  a  couple  of  ill-omened  mutes. 
They  had  placed  an  arrest  upon  the  corpse;  it  was 
theirs  until  their  claim  was  satisfied,  and  they  sat 
down  to  thus  watch  and  secure  it.   Pleasant  occupation ! 

The  loud  talking  of  a  crowd  of  creditors  reached 
Lady  Isabel  from  the  room  below.  Repressing  her 
rebellious  emotions,  she  glided  partly  down  the  stair- 
case, and  softly  called  to  the  butler,  "What  is  all 
this?"  she  asked.     "I  must  know." 

"Oh,  my  lady,  don't  go  amongst  those  rough  men! 
You  can't  do  any  good;  pray  go  back  before  they  see 
you.  I  have  sent  for  Mr.  Carlyle,  and  expect  him  here 
momentarily." 

"Did  papa  owe  them  all  money?"  she  said,  shivering. 
"1  am  afraid  he  did,  my  lady." 

She  went  swiftly  on ;  and  passing  through  the  fev/ 
stragglers  in  the  hall,  entered  the  dining-room,  where 
the  chief  mass  had  congregated,  and  the  hubbub  was 
loudest.  All  anger,  at  least  external  anger,  was 
hushed  at  her  sight.  She  looked  so  young,  so  innocent, 
so  childlike  in  her  pretty  morning  dress  of  peach-col- 
ored muslin,  her  fair  face  shaded  by  its  falling  curls, 
so  little  fit  to  combat  with,  or  understand  their  busi- 
ness, that  instead  of  pouring  forth  complaints,  they 
hushed  them  in  silence. 

"I  heard  some  one  calling  out  that  1  ought  to  see 
you,"  she  began,  her  agitation  causing  the  words  to 
come  forth  in  a  jerking  manner.  "What  did  you  want 
with  me?" 


EAST  LYNNE  65 

"The  fact  is,  young  lady,"  spoke  up  one,  *'we  should 
not  have  come  down  troubling  you — at  least,  I  can 
answer  for  myself — but  his  lordship's  men  of  business, 
Warburton  &  Ware,  to  whom  many  of  us  hastened 
last  evening,  told  us  there  would  not  be  a  shilling  for 
anybody  unless  it  could  be  got  from  the  furniture. 
When  it  comes  to  that,  it  is  'first  come,  first  served,' 
and  I  got  down  by  morning  light,  and  levied  an  execu- 
tion." 

"Which  was  levied  before  you  came, ' '  put  in  another. 
"But  what's  such  furniture  as  this  to  our  claims — if 
you  come  to  combine  'em?  No  more  than  a  bucket  of 
water  is  to  the  Thames." 

"What  can  I  do?"  shivered  Lady  Isabel.  "What 
is  it  you  wish  me  to  do?  I  have  no  money  to  give  you. 
I " 

But  another  person  had  entered  the  room- — Mr. 
Carlyle.  He  caught  sight  of  the  white  face  and  trem- 
bling hands  of  Isabel,  and  interrupted  the  last  speaker 
with  scant  ceremony.  "What  is  the  meaning  of  this?" 
he  demanded,  in  a  tone  of  authority.  "What  do  you 
want?" 

"If  you  are  a  friend  of  the  late  peer's  you  ought  to 
know  what  we  want,"  was  the  response.  "We  want 
our  debts  paid." 

"But  this  is  not  the  place  to  come  to,"  returned  Mr. 
Carlyle ;  "your  coming  here,  flocking  in  in  this  extraor- 
dinary manner,  will  do  no  good.  You  must  go  to 
Warburton  &  Ware." 

"We  have  been  to  them  and  received  their  answer 
— a  cool  assurance  that  there'll  be  nothing  for  any- 
body." 

"At  any  rate,  you'll  get  nothing  here,"  observed 
Mr.  Carlyle,  to  the  assembly,  collectively.  "Allow 
me  to  request  that  you  leave  the  house  at  once."  It 
was  little  likely  that  they  would  for  him,  and  they  said 
it. 

"Then  1  warn  you  of  the  consequences  of  a  refusal, 
quietly  said  Mr.  Carlyle.  "You  are  trespassing 
upon  a  stranger's  property.     This  house  was  not  Lord 


56  EAST  LYNNE 

Mount  Severn's;  he  sold  it  some  time  back."  They 
knew  better.  Some  laughed,  and  said  these  tricks 
were  stale. 

"Listen,  gentlemen/'  rejoined  Mr.  Carlyle,  in  the 
plain,  straightforward  manner  that  carried  its  own 
truth.  "To  make  an  assertion  that  could  be  disproved 
when  the  earl's  affairs  came  to  be  investigated,  would 
be  simply  foolish.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  as  a 
gentleman —nay,  as  a  fellow  man — that  this  estate, 
with  the  house  and  all  it  contains,  passed  legally 
months  ago  from  the  hands  of  Lord  Mount  Severn; 
and,  during  his  recent  sojourn  here  he  was  but  a  vis- 
itor in  it.     Go  and  ask  his  men  of  business." 

"Who  purchased  it?"  was  the  inquiry. 

"Mr.  Carlyle,  of  West  Lynne.  Some  of  you  may 
possibly  know  him  by  reputation." 

Some  of  them  did. 

"A  cute  young  lawyer,"  observed  a  voice;  "as  his 
father  was  before  him." 

"1  am  he,"  proceeded  Mr.  Carlyle;  'and  being  a 
'cute  lawyer,'  as  you  do  me  the  honor  to  decide,  you 
cannot  suppose  I  should  risk  my  money  upon  any  sale 
not  perfectly  safe  and  legal.  I  was  not  an  agent  in 
the  affair;  I  employed  agents;  for  it  was  my  own 
money  that  I  invested,  and  East  Lynne  is  mine." 

"Is  the  purchase  money  paid  over?"  inquired  more 
than  one. 

"It  was  paid  over  at  the  time — last  June." 

"What  did  Lord  Mount  Severn  do  with  the 
money?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  Mr.  Carlyle.  "I  am  not 
cognizant  of  Lord  Mount  Severn's  private  affairs." 
Significant  murmurs  arose.  "Strange  that  the  earl 
should  stop  two  or  three  months  at  a  place  that  \vasn't 
his!" 

"It  may  appear  so  to  you;  but  allow  me  to  explain," 
returned  Mr.  Carlyle.  "The  earl  expressed  a  w^ish  to 
pay  East  Lynne  a  few  days'  visit,  by  way  of  farewell, 
and  I  acceded.  Before  the  few  days  were  over  he  was 
taken  ill,  and  remained,  from  that  time,  too  ill  to  quit 


EAST  LYNNE  67 

it.  This  very  day — this  very  day,  gentlemen,  as  we 
stand  here — was  at  length  fixed  for  his  departure." 

"I  am  so  grieved,  Lady  Isabel,"  he  said,  as  he  closed 
the  door  upon  the  noisy  crowd.  "Had  I  foreseen  this 
annoyance,  you  should  have  been  spared  it.  Can  you 
go  upstairs  alone,  or  shall  I  call  Mrs.   Mason?" 

"Oh,  yes!  I  can  go  alone;  I  am  not  ill,  only  fright- 
ened and  sick.  This  is  not  the  worst,"  she  shivered. 
"There  are  two  men  up — up — with  papa. 

"Up  with  papa,"  she  repeated.  Mr.  Carlyle  was 
puzzled.  He  saw  that  she  was  shaking  from  head  to 
foot,  as  she  stood  before  him.  "I  cannot  understand 
it,  and  it  terrifies  me,"  she  continued,  attempting  an 
explanation.  "They  are  sitting  in  the  room,  close  to 
him;  they  have  taken  him,  they  say." 

A  blank,  thunderstruck  pause.  Mr.  Carlyle  looked 
at  her — he  did  not  speak;  and  then  he  turned  and 
looked  at  the  butler,  who  was  standing  near.  But  the 
man  only  responded  by  giving  his  head  a  half  shake, 
and  Mr.  Carlyle  saw  that  it  was  an  ominous  one. 

"I  will  clear  the  house  of  these,"  he  said  to  Lady 
Isabel,  pointing  back  to  the  dining-room,  "and  then 
join  you  upstairs." 

"Two  ruffians,  sir,  and  they  have  got  possession  of 
the  body, "  whispered  the  butler  in  Mr.  Carlyle 's  ear,  as 
Lady  Isabel  departed.  "They  obtained  entrance  to 
the  chamber  by  a  sly,  deceitful  trick,  saying  they  were 
the  undertaker's  men,  and  that  he  can't  be  buried 
unless  their  claims  are  paid,  if  it's  for  a  month  to  come. 
It  has  upset  all  our  stomachs,  sir;  Mrs.  Mason,  while 
telling  me — for  she  was  the  first  one  to  know  it — was 
as  sick  as  she  could  be." 

Mr.  Carlyle  proceeded  to  the  death  chamber,  and 
examined  the  authority  of  the  custodians  of  the  dead. 
A  similar  case  had  never  occurred  under  his  own 
observation,  though  it  had  under  his  father's,  and 
Mr.  Carlyle  remembered  hearing  of  it. 

The  body  of  a  church  dignitary,  who  had  died  deeply 
in  debt,  was  arrested  as  it  was  being  carried  through 
the  cloisters  to  its  grave  in  the  cathedral.     These  men. 


68  EAST  LYNNE 

sitting  over  Lord  Mount  Severn,  enforced  heavy  claims; 
and  there  they  must  sit  imtil  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Vane 
from  Castle  Marling — now  the  Earl  of  Mount  Severn. 

On  the  following  morning,,  Sunday,  Mr.  Carlyle 
proceeded  again  to  East  Lynne,  and  found,  to  his  sur- 
prise, that  there  was  no  arrival.  Isabel  sat  in  the 
breakfast  room  alone,  the  meal  on  the  table  untouched, 
and  she  shivering — as  it  seemed — on  a  low  ottoman 
before  the  fire.  She  looked  so  ill  that  Mr.  Carlyle 
could  not  forbear  remarking  upon  it. 

"I  have  not  slept,  and  I  am  very  cold,"  she 
answered.  "I  did  not  close  my  eyes  all  night,  I  was 
so  terrified." 

"Terrified  at  what?"  he  asked. 

' '  At  those  men, ' '  she  whispered.  "  It  is  strange  that 
Mr.  Vane  has  not  come. ' ' 

"Is  the  post  in?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  apathetically  replied.  "I  have 
received  nothing." 

She  had  scarcely  spoken  when  the  butler  entered 
with  his  silver  salver  full  of  letters,  most  of  them  bear- 
ing condolence  with  Lady  Isabel.  She  singled  out 
one,  and  hastened  to  open  it,  for  it  bore  the  Castle 
Marling  post-mark.  "It  is  Mrs.  Vane's  handwriting," 
she  remarked  to  Mr.  Carlyle. 

Castle  Marling,  Saturday. 

"My  Dear  Isabel — I  am  dreadfully  grieved  and 
shocked  at  the  news  conveyed  in  Mr.  Carlyle's  letter 
to  my  husband,  for  he  has  gone  cruising  in  his  yacht, 
and  I  opened  it.  Goodness  knows  where  he  may  be, 
round  the  coast  somewhere,  but  he  said  he  should  be 
home  for  Sunday,  and  as  he  is  pretty  punctual  in  keep- 
ing his  word,  I  expect  him.  Be  assured  he  will  not 
lose  a  moment  in  hastening  to  East  Lynne. 

"I  cannot  express  what  I  feel  for  you,  and  am  too 
bouleversce  to  write  more.  Try  and  keep  up  your 
spirits,  and  believe  me,  dear  Isabel,  with  sincere  sym- 
pathy and  regret,  faithfully  yours, 

"Emma  Mount    Severn." 


EAST  LYNNE  69 

The  color  came  to  Isabel's  pale  cheek  when  ane  read 
the  signature.  She  thought,  had  she  been  the  writer, 
she  would,  in  that  first,  early  letter,  have  still  signed 
herself  Emma  Vane.  Isabel  handed  the  note  to  Mr. 
Carlyle.      "It  is  very  unfortunate,"  she  sighed. 

Mr.  Carlyle  glanced  over  it  as  quickly  as  Mrs.  Vane's 
illegible  writing  allowed  him,  and  drew  in  his  lips  in 
a  peculiar  manner  when  he  came  to  the  signature. 
Perhaps  at  the  same  thought  which  had  struck  Isabel. 

"Had  Mrs.  Vane  been  worth  a  rush,  she  would  have 
come  herself,  knowing  your  lonely  situation,"  he 
uttered,  impulsively. 

Isabel  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand.  All  the  diffi- 
culties and  embarrassments  of  her  position  came  crowd- 
ing on  her  mind.  No  orders  had  been  given  in  prep- 
aration for  the  funeral,  and  she  felt  that  she  had  no 
right  to  give  any.  The  earls  of  Mount  Severn  were 
buried  at  Mount  Severn;  but  to  take  her  father  thither 
would  involve  great  expense;  would  the  present  earl 
sanction  that? 

"Mr.  Carlyle,  how  long  has  this  house  been  yours?" 
she  asked,  breaking  the  silence. 

"It  was  in  June  that  the  purchase  was  completed. 
Did  Lord  Mount  Severn  never  tell  you  he  had  sold 
it  to  me?" 

"No,  never.  All  these  things  are  yours?"  glancing 
round  the  room. 

"The  furniture  was  sold  with  the  house.  Not  these 
sort  of  things,"  he  added,  his  eye  falling  on  the  silver 
on  the  breakfast  table;  "not  the  plate  and  linen." 

"Not  the  plate  and  linen !  Then  these  poor  men  who 
were  here  yesterday  have  a  right  to  them,"  she 
quickly  cried. 

"I  scarcely  know.  I  believe  the  plate  goes  with  the 
entail — and  the  jewels  go  also.  The  linen  cannot  be 
of  consequence  either  v/ay. " 

"Are  m}^  clothes  my  own?" 

He  smiled  as  he  looked  at  her,  smiled  at  her  simplic- 
ity, and  assured  her  that  they  were  nobody's  else.  "I 
did  not  know,"  she  replied;  "I  did  not  understand. 


60  EAST  LYNNE 

So  many  strange  things  have  happened  in  the  last  day 
or  two  that  I  seem  to  understand  nothing. " 

Indeed,  she  could  not  understand.  She  had  no  defi- 
nite ideas  on  the  subject  of  this  transfer  of  East  Lynne 
to  Mr.  Carlyle;  plenty  of  indefinite  ones,  and  they 
were  haunting  her.  Fears  of  debt  to  him,  and  of  the 
house  and  its  contents  being  handed  over  to  him  in 
liquidation,  perhaps  only  partial,  were  working  in  her 
brain. 

"Does  my  father  owe  you  any  money?"  she  breathed, 
in  a  timid  tone.  ''Not  any,"  he  replied.  "Lord  Mount 
Severn  was  never  indebted  to  me  in  his  life. " 

"Yet  you  purchased  East  Lynne!" 

"As  any  one  else  might  have  done, "  he  answered, 
discerning  the  drift  of  her  thoughts.  "I  was  in  search 
of  an  eligible  estate  to  invest  money  in,  a,nd  East 
Lynne  suited  me." 

"I  feel  my  position,  Mr.  Carlyle,"  she  resumed,  the 
rebelliouo  tears  forcing  themselves  to  her  eyes;  "thus 
to  be  intruding  upon  you  for  shelter.  And  I  cannot 
help  myself." 

"You  can  help  grieving  me,"  he  gently  answered, 
"which  you  do  much  when  you  talk  of  obligation.  The 
obligation  is  on  my  side,  Lady  Isabel;  and  when  I 
express  a  hope  that  you  will  continue  at  East  Lynne 
while  it  can  be  of  service,  however  prolonged  that 
period  may  be,  1  assure  you,  I  say  it  in  all  sincer- 
ity.- 

"You  are  truly  kind,"  she  faltered;  "and  for  a  few 

days;   until  I  can  think;   until Oh,  Mr.  Carlyle, 

are  papa's  affairs  really  so  bad  as  they  said  yesterday?" 
She  broke  off,  her  perplexities  recurring  to  her  with 
vehement  force.     "Is  there  nothing  left?" 

"I  fear  things  are  not  very  bright,"  he  answered. 
"That  is,  so  far  as  we  can  see  at  present.  But  there 
may  have  been  some  settlement  effected  for  3^ou  that 
you  do  not  know  of.     Warburton  &  Ware " 

"No,"  she  interrupted;  "1  never  heard  of  a  settle- 
ment, and  I  am  sure  there  is  none.  I  see  the  worst 
plainly.     I   have   no  home — no  home  and  no  money. 


EAST  LYNNE  61 

This  house  is  yours;  the  town  house  and  Mount 
Severn  go  to  Mr.  Vane;  and  1  have  nothing." 

"But  surely  Mr.  Vane  will  be  delighted  to  welcome 
you  to  your  old  home.  The  houses  pass  to  him — it 
almost  seems  as  though  you  had  the  greater  right  in 
them  than  he  or  Mrs.  Vane." 

''My  home  with  them!"  she  retorted,  as  if  the  words 
had  stung  her.     "What  are  you  saying,  Mr.  Carlyle?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Lady  Isabel.  I  should  not  have 
presumed  to  touch  upon  these  points  myself,  but " 

' '  Nay,  I  think  I  ought  to  beg  yours, ' '  she  interrupted, 
more  calmly.  "I  am  only  grateful  for  the  interest  you 
take  in  them — the  kindness  you  have  shown.  But  I 
could  not  make  my  home  with  Mrs.  Vane." 

Mr.  Carlyle  rose.  He  could  do  no  good  by  remain- 
ing, and  did  not  think  well  to  intrude  longer.  He 
suggested  that  it  might  be  more  pleasant  if  Isabel  had 
a  friend  with  her;  Mrs.  Ducie  would  no  doubt  be  will- 
ing to  come,  and  she  was  a  kind,  motherly  woman. 

Isabel  shook  her  head  with  a  passing  shudder. 
"Have  strangers  here,  with — all — that — in  papa's 
chamber!"  she  uttered.  "Mrs.  Ducie  drove  over  yes- 
terday, perhaps  to  remain — I  don't  know;  but  I  was 
afraid  of  questions,  and  would  not  see  her.  When  I 
think  of — that — I  feel  thankful  that  I  am  alone." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   NEW^   PEER — THE   BANK-NOTE 

A  post-chaise  was  discerned  thundering  up  the 
avenue  that  Sunday  afternoon.  It  contained  the  new 
peer,  Lord  Mount  Severn.  The  more  direct  line  of  rail 
from  Castle  Marling  brought  him  only  to  within  five 
miles  of  West  Lynne,  and  thence  he  had  traveled  in  a 
hired  chaise.  Mr.  Carlyle  soon  joined  him,  and  almost 
at  the  same  time  Mr.  Warburton  arrived  from  London. 
Absence  from  town  at  the  period  of  the  earl's  death 
had  prevented  Mr.  Warburton 's  earlier  attendance. 
Business  was  entered  upon  immediately. 


62  EAST  LYNNE 

The  present  earl  knew  that  his  predecessor  had  been 
an  embarrassed  man,  but  he  had  no  conception  of  the 
extent  of  the  evil;  they  had  not  been  intimate,  and 
rarely  came  in  contact.  As  the  various  items  of  news 
were  now  detailed  to  him — the  wasteful  expenditure, 
the  disastrous  ruin,  the  total  absence  of  provision  for 
Isabel — he  stood  petrified  and  aghast.  He  was  a  tall, 
stout  man,  of  three-and-forty  years,  his  nature  honor- 
able, his  manners  cold  and  his  countenance  severe. 

"It  is  the  most  iniquitous  piece  of  business  I  ever 
heard  of!"  he  exclaimed  to  the  two  lawyers.  "Of  all 
reckless  fools.  Mount  vSevern  must  have  been  the 
worst!" 

"Unpardonably  improvident  as  regards  his 
daughter,"  was  the  assenting  remark. 

"Improvident!  It  must  have  been  rank  madness!" 
retorted  the  earl.  "No  man  in  his  senses  could  leave 
a  child  to  the  mercy  of  the  world,  as  he  has  left  her. 
She  has  not  a  shilling — literally,  not  a  shilling  in  her 
possession.  I  put  the  question  to  her,  what  money 
there  was  in  the  house  when  the  earl  died.  Twenty 
or  twenty-five  pounds,  she  answered,  which  she  had 
since  given  to  Mason,  who  required  it  for  housekeep- 
ing purposes.  If  the  girl  wants  a  yard  of  ribbon  for 
herself  she  has  not  the  pence  to  pay  for  it!  Can  you 
realize  such  a  case  to  the  mind?"  continued  the  excited 
peer.  "I  will  stake  m}^  veracity  that  such  a  one  never 
occurred  yet." 

"No  money  for  her  own  personal  wants!"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Carlyle.  "Not  a  halfpenny  in  the  world.  And 
there  are  no  funds,  and  will  be  none,  that  I  can  see, 
for  her  to  draw  upon." 

"Her  case  presents  the  worst  feature  of  the  whole," 
remarked  Mr.  Carlyle.  "What  will  she  do  for  a 
home?" 

"She  must,  of  course,  find  it  w^ith  me,"  replied  his 
lordship,  "and  I  should  hope,  a  better  one  than  this. 
With  all  these  debts  and  duns  at  his  elbow.  Mount 
Severn's  house  could  not  have  been  a  bower  of  roses. ' ' 

"I  fancy  she  knew   nothincr  of  the   state  of  affairs; 


EAST  LYNNE  63 

had  seen  little,  if  anything,  of  the  circumstances," 
returned  Mr.  Carlyle. 

Two  mourners  only  attended  the  funeral — the  earl 
and  Mr.  Carlyle.  The  latter  was  no  relative  of  the 
deceased,  and  but  a  very  recent  friend;  but  the  earl 
had  invited  him,  probably  not  liking  the  parading, 
solus,  his  trappings  of  woe.  Some  of  the  county  aris- 
tocracy were  pall-bearers,  and  many  private  carriages 
followed. 

All  was  bustle  on  the  following  morning.  The  earl 
was  to  depart,  and  Isabel  was  to  depart,  but  not 
together.  In  the  course  of  the  day  the  domestics 
would  disperse.  The  earl  was  speeding  to  London, 
and  the  chaise  to  convey  him  to  the  railway  station  at 
West  Lynne  was  already  at  the  door  when  Mr.  Carlyle 
arrived. 

"1  was  getting  fidgety,  fearing  you  would  not  be 
here,  for  I  have  barely  five  minutes  to  spare, ' '  observed 
the  earl,  as  he  shook  hands.  "You  are  sure  you  fully 
understood  about  the  tombstone?" 

"Perfectly,"  replied  Mr.  Carlyle.  "How  is  Lady 
Isabel?" 

"Very  down-hearted,  I  fear,  poor  child,  for  she  did 
not  breakfast  with  me,"  replied  the  earl.  "Mason 
privately  told  me  that  she  was  in  a  convulsion  of  grief. 
A  bad  man,  a  bad  man,  was  Mount  Severn,"  he 
emphatically  added,  as  he  rose  and  rang  the  bell. 

"Let  Lady  Isabel  be  informed  that  I  am  ready  to 
depart,  and  that  I  wait  to  see  her,"  he  said  to  the  serv- 
ant who  answered  it.  "And  while  she  is  coming,  Mr. 
Carlyle,"  he  added,  "allow  me  to  express  my  obliga- 
tions to  you.  How  I  should  have  got  along  in  this 
worrying  business  without  you,  1  cannot  divine. 
You  have  promised,  mind,  to  pay  me  a  visit,  and  I 
shall  expect  it  speedily." 

"Promised  conditionally — that  I  find  myself  in  your 
neighborhood,"  smiled  Mr.  Carlyle.     "Should " 

Isabel  entered,  dressed  also,  and  ready,  for  she  was 
to  depart  immediately  after  the  earl.  Her  crape  veil 
was  over  her  face,  but  she  threw  it  back. 


64  EAST  LYNNE 

"iviy  time  is  up,  Isabel,  and  I  must  go.  Is  there  any- 
thing you  wish  to  say  to  me?"  She  opened  her  lips  to 
speak,  but  glanced  at  Mr.  Carlyle,  and  hesitated.  He 
was  standing  at  the  window,  his  back  toward  them. 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  the  earl,  answering  himself, 
for  he  was  in  a  fever  of  hurry  to  be  off,  like  many 
others  are  when  starting  on  a  journey.  "You  will 
have  no  trouble  whatever,  my  dear;  only  mind  you  get 
some  refreshments  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  for  you 
won't  be  at  Castle  Marling  before  dinner  time.  Tell 
Mrs.  Va — tell  Lady  Mount  Severn  that  I  had  no  time 
to  write,  but  will  do  so  from  town." 

Mr.  Carlyle  took  her  hand  to  conduct  her  to  the  car- 
riage. The  servants  were  gathered  in  the  hall,  wait- 
ing for  her.  Some  had  grown  gray  in  her  father's 
service.  She  put  out  her  hand,  she  strove  to  say  a 
word  of  thanks  and  farewell,  and  she  thought  she  would 
choke  at  the  effort  of  keeping  dov/n  the  sobs.  At 
length  it  was  over;  a  kind  look  around,  a  yearning 
wave  of  the  hand,  and  she  passed  on  with  Mr.  Carlyle. 

Pound  had  ascended  to  his  place  by  Marvel,  and  the 
postboys  were  waiting  the  signal  to  start,  but  Mr.  Car- 
lyle had  the  carriage  door  open  again,  and  was  bending 
in,  holding  her  hand. 

"I  have  not  said  a  word  of  thanks  to  you  for  all  your 
kindness,  Mr.  Carlyle,"  she  cried,  her  breath  very 
labored.    "I  am  sure  you  have  seen  that  I  could  not." 

''I  wish  I  could  have  done  more;  I  wish  I  could  have 
shielded  you  from  the  annoyances  you  have  been 
obliged  to  endure!"  he  answered.  "Should  we  never 
meet  aeain " 


"Oh,  but  we  shall  meet  again,"  she  interrupted. 
"You  promised  Lord  Mount  Severn." 

"True,  we  ma}''  so  meet  casually — once  in  a  way; 
but  our  ordinary  paths  in  life  lie  far  and  wide  apart. 
God  forever  bless  you,  dear  Lady  Isabel!" 

The  postboys  touched  their  horses,  and  the  carriage 
sped  on.  She  drew  down  the  blinds,  and  leaned  back 
in  an  agony  of  tears — tears  for  the  house  she  was  leav- 
ing, for  the  father  she  had  lost.   Her  last  thoughts  had 


EAST  LYNNE  65 

been  of  gratitude  to  Mr.  Carlyle ;  but  she  had  more 
cause  to  be  grateful  to  him  than  she  yet  knew  of. 
Emotion  soon  spent  itself,  and,  as  her  eyes  cleared, 
she  saw  a  bit  of  crumpled  paper  lying  on  her  lap,  which 
appeared  to  have  fallen  from  her  hand.  Mechanically 
she  took  it  up  and  opened  it;  it  was  a  bank-note  for 
one  hundred  pounds. 

Ah,  reader!  you  will  say  this  is  a  romance  of  fiction, 
and  a  far-fetched  one,  but  it  is  verily  and  indeed  true: 
Mr.   Carlyle  had  taken  it  with  him  to    East   Lynne, ' 
that  morning,  with  its  destined  purpose. 

Lady  Isabel  strained  her  eyes,  and  gazed  at  the  note 
— gazed  and  gazed  again.  Where  could  it  have  come 
from?  What  brought  it  there?  Suddenly  the 
undoubted  truth  flashed  upon  her;  Mr.  Carlyle  had 
left  it  in  her  hand.  Her  cheeks  burnt,  her  fingers 
trembled,  her  angry  spirit  rose  up  in  arms.  In  that 
first  moment  of  discovery,  she  was  ready  to  resent  it 
as  an  insult ;  but  when  she  came  to  remember  the  sober 
facts  of  the  last  few  days,  her  anger  subsided  into 
admiration  of  his  wondrous  kindness.  Did  he  not 
know  that  she  was  without  a  home  to  call  her  own, 
without  money — absolutely  without  money,  save  what 
would  be  given  her  in  charity? 

There  was  an  angry  scene  when  the  news  was  con- 
veyed to  Lady  Severn  that  Isabel  had  gone  to  Castle 
Marling  as  her  home.  The  earl,  however,  was  firm, 
and  she  was  obliged  to  give  way. 


5  Lynne 


66  EAST  LYNNE 


CHAPTER  XII 

LIFE   AT   CASTLE   MARLING 

Isabel  had  been  in  her  new  home  about  ten  days, 
when  Lord  and  Lady  Mount  Severn  arrived  at  Castle 
Marling;  which  was  not  a  castle,  you  may  as  well  be 
told,  but  only  the  name  of  a  town,  nearly  contiguous 
to  which  was  their  residence,  a  small  estate.  Lord 
Mount  Severn  welcomed  Isabel;  Lady  Mount  Severn 
also,  after  a  fashion;  but  her  manner  was  so  repellant, 
so  insolently  patronizing,  that  it  brought  the  indignant 
crimson  to  the  cheeks  of  Lady  Isabel.  And  if  this  was 
the  case  at  the  first  meeting,  what  do  you  suppose  it 
must  have  been  as  time  went  on?  Galling  slights, 
petty  vexations,  chilling  annoyances  were  put  upon 
her,  trying  her  powers  of  endurance  to  the  very  length 
of  their  tether;  she  would  wring  her  hands  when 
alone,  and  passionately  wish  that  she  could  find  another 
refuge. 

The  earl  and  countess  had  two  children,  both  boys, 
and  in  February  the  younger  one,  always  a  delicate 
child,  died.  This  somewhat  altered  their  plans. 
Instead  of  proceeding  to  London  after  Easter,  as  had 
been  decided  upon,  they  would  not  go  till  May.  The 
earl  had  passed  part  of  the  winter  at  Mount  Severn 
looking  after  the  repairs  and  renovations  that  were 
being  made  there.  In  March  he  went  to  Paris,  full  of 
grief  for  the  loss  of  his  boy — far  greater  grief  than  was 
experienced  by  Lady  Mount  Severn. 

April  approached,  and  with  it  Easter.  To  the  uncon- 
cealed dismay  of  Lady  Mount  Severn,  her  grand- 
mother, Mrs.  Levison,  wrote  her  word  that  she 
required  change,  and  should  pass  Easter  with  her  at 
Castle  Marling.  Lady  Mount  Severn  would  have  given 
her  diamonds  to  have  got  out  of  it,  but  there  was  no 
escape — diamonds  that  were  once   Isabel's — at  least. 


EAST  LYNNE  67 

what  Isabel  had  worn.  On  the  Monday  in  Passion 
Week  the  old  lady  arrived,  and  with  her  Francis  Levi- 
son.  They  had  no  other  guests.  Things  went  on 
pretty  smoothly  till  Good  Friday. 

On  Good  Friday  afternoon,  Isabel  strolled  out  with 
little  William  Vane;  Captain  Levison  joined  them, 
and  they  never  came  in  till  nearly  dinner-time,  when 
the  three  entered  together,  Lady  Mount  Severn  doing 
penance  all  the  time,  and  nursing  her  rage  against 
Isabel,  for  Mrs.  Levison  kept  her  indoors.  There  was 
barely  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  Isabel  went  straight 
to  her  room.  Iler  dress  was  off,  her  dressino-.o-own  on. 
Marvel  was  busj' with  her  hair,  and  u'illiam  chattering 
at  her  knee,  when  the  door  was  flung  open  and  my  lady 
entered. 

*' Where  have  you  been?"  demanded  she,  shaking  with 
passion.  Isabel  knew  the  signs.  "Strolling  about 
in  the  shrubberies  and  grounds,"  answered  Isabel. 

"How  dare  5^ou  so  disgrace  yourself?" 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Isabel,  her  heart 
beginning  to  beat  unpleasantly.  "Marvel,  you  are 
pulling  my  hair. " 

When  women  liable  to  intemperate  fits  of  passion 
give  the  reins  to  it,  they  neither  know  nor  care  what 
they  say.  Lady  Mount  Severn  broke  into  a  torrent 
of  reproach  and  abuse,  most  degrading  and  unjustifi- 
able. 

"Is  it  not  sufficient  that  yoi"  are  allov/ed  an  asylum 
in  my  house,  but  you  must  also  disgrace  it?  Three 
hours  have  you  been  hiding  yourself  with  Francis 
Levison!  You  have  done  nothing  but  flirt  v/ith  him 
from  the  moment  became;  you  did  nothing  else  at 
Christmas. " 

The  attack  was  longer  and  broader,  but  that  was 
the  substance  of  it,  and  Isabel  was  goaded  to  resist- 
ance, to  anger  little  less  than  that  of  the  countess. 
This! — and  before  her  attendant!  She,  an  earl's 
daughter,  so  much  better  born  than  Emma  Mount 
Severn,  to  be  thus  insultingly  accused  in  the  other's 
mad  jealousy.       Isabel  tossed  her  hair  from  the  hands 


38  EAST  LYNNE 

of  Marvel,  rose  up  and  confronted  the  countess, 
constraining  her  voice  to  calmness 

"I  do  nofflirt,"  she  said;  "I  have  never  flirted.  I 
leave  that" — and  she  could  not  wholly  suppress  in  tone 
the  scorn  she  felt — "to  married  women;  though  it 
seems  to  me  that  it  is  a  fault  less  venal  in  them  than 
in  single  ones.  There  is  but  one  inmate  of  this  house 
who  flirts,  so  far  as  1  have  seen  since  I  have  lived  in 
it;  is  it  you  or  I,  Lady  Mount  Severn?" 

The  home  truth  told  on  her  ladyship.  She  turned 
v/hite  with  rage,  forgot  her  manners,  and  raising  her 
right  hand,  struck  Isabel  a  stinging  blow  upon  the  left 
cheek.  Confused  and  terrified,  Isabel  stood  in  pain, 
and  before  she  could  speak  or  act,  my  lady's  left  hand 
was  raised  to  the  other  cheek,  and  a  blow  left  on  that. 
Lady  Isabel  shivered  as  with  a  sudden  chill,  and  cried 
out — a  sharp,  quick  cry — covered  her  outraged  face, 
and  sank  down  upon  the  dressing  chair.  Marvel  threw 
up  her  hands  in  dismay,  and  William  Vane  could  not 
have  burst  into  a  louder  roar  had  he  been  beaten  him- 
self. The  boy — he  was  of  a  sensitive  nature — was 
frightened. 

Isabel  Vane  lay  through  the  livelong  night,  weeping 
tears  of  anguish  and  indignation.  She  could  not  remain 
at  Castle  Marling — who  would,  after  so  great  an  out- 
rage? Yet  where  was  she  to  go?  Fifty  times  in  the 
course  of  the  night  did  she  wish  she  was  laid  beside 
her  father,  for  her  feelings  obtained  the  mastery  of 
her  reason ;  in  her  calm  moments  she  would  have  shrunk 
from  the  idea  of  death,  as  the  young  and  healthy 
must  do. 

She  rose  on  the  Saturday  morning  weak  and  languid, 
the  effects  of  the  night  of  grief,  and  iMarvel  brought 
her  breakfast  up.  William  Vane  stole  into  her  room 
afterward;  he  was  attached  to  her  in  a  remarkable 
degree. 

"Mamma  is  going  out,"  he  exclaimed  in  the  course 
of  the  morning.     "Look,  Isabel.  " 

Isabel  went  to  the  window.  Lady  Mount  Severn 
was  in  the  pony  carriage,  Francis  Levison  driving. 


EAST  LYNNE  69 

"We  can  go  down  now,  Isabel,  nobody  will  be 
there."  She  assented,  and  went  down  with  William; 
but  scarcely  were  they  in  the  drawing-room  when  a 
servant  entered  with  a  card  on  a  salver. 

"A  gentleman,  my  lady,  wishes  to  see  you." 

"To  see  me?"  returned  Isabel,  in  surprise,  "or 
Lady  Mount  Severn?" 

"He  asked  for  you,  my  lady."  She  took  up  the  card. 
"Mr.  Carlyle.  Oh!"  she  uttered,  in  a  tone  of  joyful 
surprise,  "show  him  in." 

It  is  curious,  nay,  appalling,  to  trace  the  thread  of  a1 
human  life;  how  the  most  trivial  occurrences  lead  to 
the  great  events  of  existence,  bringing  forth  happiness; 
or   misery,  weal  or  woe.     A  client  of  Mr.   Carlyle's;^ 
traveling  from  one  part  of  England  to  the  other,  was 
arrested  by  illness  at  Castle  Marling — grave  illness,  it 
appeared  to  be,  inducing  fears  of  death.     He  had  not, 
as  the  phrase  goes,  settled  his  affairs;  and  Mr.  Carlyle 
was  telegraphed  for  in  haste,  to  make  his  will,  and  for 
other  private  matters.      A  very  simple  occurrence  it 
appeared  to  Mr.  Carlyle,  this  journey,  and  yet  it  was 
destined  to  lead  to  events  that  would  end  only  with  his 
own  life. 

Mr.  Carlyle  entered,  unaffected  and  gentlemanly  as 
ever,  with  his  noble  form,  his  attractive  face,  and  his 
drooping  eyelids.  She  advanced  to  meet  him,  holding 
out  her  hand,  her  countenance  betraying  her  pleasure. 
"This  is  indeed  unexpected, "  she  exclaimed.  "How 
very  pleased  I  am  to  see  you." 

"Business  brought  me  yesterday  to  Castle  Marling. 
I  could  not  leave  it  again  without  calling  on  you.  I 
hear  that  Lord  Mount  Severn  is  absent." 

"He  is  in  France,"  she  replied.  "I  said  we  should 
be  sure  to  meet  again;  do  you  remember,  Mr.  Carlyle? 
You " 

Isabel  suddenly  stopped,  for  with  the  word  "remem- 
ber" she  also  remembered  something — the  hundred 
pound  note — and  what  she  v^ras  saying  faltered  on  her 
tongue.  Confused,  indeed,  grew  she;  for,  alas!  she 
had  changed  and  partly  spent  it.    How  was  it  possible 


70  EAST  LYNNE 

to  9.sk  Lady  Mount  Severn  for  money?  and  the  earl 
was  nearly  always  away.  Mr.  Carlyle  saw  her  embar- 
rassment, though  he  may  not  have  detected  its  cause. 

"What  a  fine  boy!"  exclaimed  he,  looking  at  the 
child. 

"It  is  Lord  Vane,"  said  Isabel. 

"A  truthful,  earnest  spirit,  I  am  sure,"  he  contin- 
ued, gazing  at  his  open  countenance.  "How  old  are 
you,  my  Uttle  man?" 

"I  am  six,  sir;  and  my  brother  was  four." 

Isabel  bent  over  the  child — an  excuse  to  cover  her 
perplexity.  "You  do  not  know  this  gentleman,  Wil- 
liam. It  is  Mr.  Carlyle,  and  he  has  been  very  kind  to 
me." 

The  little  lord  turned  his  thoughtful  eyes  on  Mr. 
Carlyle,  apparently  studying  his  countenance.  "I  shall 
like  you,  sir,  if  you  are  kind  to  Isabel.  Are  you  kind 
to  her?" 

"Very,  very  kind,"  murmured  Lady  Isabel,  leaving 
William,  and  turning  to  Mr.  Carlyle,  but  not  looking 
at  him.  "I  don't  know  what  to  say;  I  ought  to  thank 
you.  I  did  not  intend  to  use  the — to  use  it ;  but  I — 
I " 

"Hush!"  he  interrupted,  laughing  at  her  confusion. 
"Let's  talk  of  Castle  Marling.  I  trust  it  is  a  happy 
home  to  you." 

She  glanced  up  at  him  a  look  that  he  would  never 
forget;  it  certainly  told  of  despair.  "No,"  she  said, 
shaking  her  head,  "it  is  a  miserable  home,  and  I  can- 
not remain  in  it.  I  have  been  awake  all  night,  think- 
ing where  I  can  go,  but  1  cannot  tell;  I  have  not  a 
friend  in  the  wide  world." 

Never  let  people  talk  secrets  before  children,  for  be 
assured  that  they  comprehend  a  vast  deal  more  than 
is  expedient;  the  saying  "that  little  pitchers  have 
great  ears"  is  wonderfully  true.  Lord  Vane  held  up 
his  head  to  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"Isabel  told  me  this  morning  that  she  should  go 
away  from  us.  Shall  I  tell  you  why?  Mamma  beat 
her  yesterday  when  she  was  angfry,  " 


EAST  LYNNE  71 

"Be  quiet,  William,"  interrupted  Lady  Isabel,  her 
face  in  a  flame. 

**Two  great  slaps  upon  her  cheeks,"  continued  the 
young  viscount;  *'and  Isabel  cried  so,  and  1  screamed, 
and  then  mamma  hit  me.  But  boys  are  made  to  be 
hit;  nurse  says  so.  Marvel  came  into  the  nursery 
when  we  were  at  tea,  and  told  nurse  about  it.  She 
says  Isabel's  too  good-looking,  and  that's  why 
mamma " 

Isabel  stopped  the  child's  tongue,  rang  a  peal  of  the 
bell,  and  marched  him  to  the  door,  dispatching  him  to 
the  nursery  by  the  servant  who  answered  it. 

Mr.  Carlyle's  eyes  were  full  of  indignant  sympathy. 
"Can  this  be  true?"  he  asked,  in  a  low  tone  when  she 
returned  to  him.     "You  do,  indeed,  want  a  friend." 

"I  must  bear  my  lot,"  she  replied,  obeying  the 
impulse  which  prompted  her  to  confide  in  Mr.  Carlyle; 
"at  least  till  Lord  Mount  Severn  returns." 

"And  then?" 

"I  really  do  not  know,"  she  said,  the  rebellious  tears 
rising  faster  than  she  could  choke  them  down.  "He 
has  no  other  home  to  offer  me;  but  with  Lady  Mount 
Severn  I  cannot  and  Vv^U  not  remain.  She  would  break 
my  heart,  as  she  has  already  well-nigh  broken  my 
spirit.     I  have  not  deserved  it  of  her,  Mr.  Carlyle." 

"No,  1  am  sure  you  have  not, "  he  warmly  answered. 
"I  wish  I  could  help  you!     What  can  I  do?" 

"You  can  do  nothing,"  she  said.  "What  can  any 
one  do?" 

"I  wish,  I  wish  I  could  help  you!"  he  repeated. 
"East  Lynne  was  not,  take  it  for  all  in  all,  a  pleasant 
home  to  you,  but  it  seems  you  changed  for  the  worse 
when  you  left." 

'  *  Not  a  pleasant  home ! ' '  she  echoed,  its  reminiscences 
appearing  delightful  in  that  moment,  for  it  must  be 
remembered  that  all  things  are  estimated  by  compar- 
ison. "Indeed,  it  was;  I  may  never  have  so  pleasant 
a  one  again.  Oh,  Mr.  Carlyle,  do  not  disparage  East 
Lynne  to  me!  Would  I  could  awake  and  find  the  last 
fev\^  months   but  a  hideous  dream! — that  I   could  find 


72  EAST  LYNNE 

my  dear  father  alive  again! — that  we  were  still  living 
peacefully  at  East  Lynne.  It  would  be  a  very  Eden 
to  me  now." 

What  was  Mr.  Carlyle  about  to  say?  What  emotion 
was  it  that  agitated  his  countenance,  impeded  his  breath, 
and  dyed  his  face  blood-red?  His  better  genius  was 
surely  not  watching  over  him,  or  those  words  had 
never  been  spoken. 

''There  is  but  one  way,"  he  began,  taking  her  hand 
and  nervously  playing  with  it,  probably  unconscious 
that  he  did  so;  "only  one  way  in  which  you  could 
return  to  East  Lynne.  And  that  way — I  may  not  pre- 
sume, perhaps,  to  point  it  out." 

She  looked  at  him  and  waited  for  an  explanation. 

"If  my  words  offend  you.  Lady  Isabel,  check  them., 
as  their  presumption  deserves,  and  pardon  me.  May 
I — dare  I — offer  you  to  return  to  East  Lynne  as  its 
mistress?"  She  did  not  comprehend  him  in  the  slight- 
est degree,  the  drift  of  his  meaning  never  dawned  upon 
her.  "Return  to  East  Lynne  as  its  mistress?"  she 
repeated,  in  bewilderment. 

"And  as  my  wife!" 

No  possibility  of  misunderstandiag  him  now,  and  the 
shock  and  surprise  were  great.  She  had  stood  there  by 
Mr.  Carlyle 's  side  conversing  confidently  with  him, 
esteeming  him  greatly,  feeling  as  if  he  were  her  truest 
friend  on  earth,  clinging  to  him  in  her  heart  as  to  a 
powerful  haven  of  refuge,  loving  him  almost  as  she 
would  love  a  brother,  suffering  her  hand  to  remain  in 
his.  But  to  be  his  wife!  The  idea  had  never  pre- 
sented itself  to  her  in  any  shape  until  this  moment, 
and  her  mind's  first  emotion  was  one  of  entire  opposi- 
tion, her  first  movement  to  express  it,  as  she  essayed 
to  withdraw  herself  and  her  hand  away  from  him. 

But  not  so;  Mr.  Carlyle  did  not  suffer  it.  He  not 
only  retained  that  hand,  but  took  the  other  also,  and 
spoke,  now  the  ice  was  broken,  eloquent  words  of  love. 
Not  unmeaning  phrases  of  rhapsody  about  hearts  and 
darts  and  dying  for  her,  such  as  somebody  else  might 
have  given  utterance  to,  but  earnest-hearted  words  of 


EAST  LYNNE  73 

deep  tenderness,  calculated  to  win  upon  the  mind's 
good  sense,  as  well  as  upon  the  ear  and  heart ;  and  it 
may  be  that,  had  her  imagination  not  been  filled  up 
with  that  "somebody  else,"  she  would  have  said 
"Yes,"  there  and  then. 

They  were  suddenly  interrupted.  Lady  Mount 
Severn  entered  and  took  in  the  scene  at  a  glance ;  Mr. 
Carlyle's  bent  attitude  of  devotion,  his  imprisonment 
of  the  hands,  and  Isabel's  perplexed  and  blushing 
countenance.  She  threw  up  her  head  and  her  little 
inquisitive  nose,  and  stopped  short  on  the  carpet ;  her 
freezing  looks  demanded  an  explanation,  as  plainly  as 
looks  can  do  it.  Mr.  Carlyle  turned  to  her,  and,  by 
way  of  sparing  Isabel,  proceeded  to  introduce  himself. 
Isabel  had  just  presence  of  mind  left  to  name  her: 
"Lady  Mount  Severn." 

"I  am  sorry  that  Lord  Mount  Severn  should  be 
absent,  to  whom  I  have  the  honor  of  being  known, ' ' 
he  said.     "I  am  Mr.  Carlyle." 

' '  I  have  heard  of  you, ' '  replied  her  ladyship,  scanning 
his  good  looks,  and  feeling  cross  that  his  homage  should 
be  given  where  she  saw  it  was  given,  "but  I  had  not 
heard  that  you  and  Lady  Isabel  Vane  were  on  the 
extraordinary  terms  of  intimacy  that — that " 

"Madam,"  he  interrupted,  as  he  handed  a  chair  to 
her  ladyship  and  took  another  to  himself,  "we  have 
never  yet  been  on  terms  of  extraordinary  intimacy.  I 
was  begging  the  Lady  Isabel  to  grant  that  we  might 
be;  I  was  asking  her  to  become  my  wife." 

The  avowal  was  a  shower  of  incense  to  the  countess, 
and  her  ill-humor  melted  into  sunshine.  It  was  a 
solution  to  her  great  difficulty,  a  loophole  by  which 
she  might  get  rid  of  her  bete  noire^  the  hated  Isabel. 
A  flush  of  gratification  lighted  her  face,  and  she 
became  full  of  graciousness  to  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"How  very  grateful  Isabel  must  feel  to  you,"  quoth 
she.  "I  speak  openly,  because  I  know  that  you  were 
cognizant  of  the  unprotected  state  in  which  she  was 
left  by  the  earl's  improvidence,  putting  marriage  for 
her,  at  any  rate,  a  high  marriage,  nearly  out  of  the 


74  EAST  LYNNE 

question.      East   Lynne   is  a  beautiful   place,  I  have 
heard." 

"For  its  size;  it  is  not  large,"  replied  Mr.  Carlyle, 
as  he  rose,  for  Isabel  had  also  risen  and  was  coming 
forward. 

"And  pray  what  is  Lady  Isabel's  answer?"  quickly 
asked  the  countess,  turning  to  her. 

Not  to  her  did  Isabel  condescend  to  give  an  answer, 
but  she  approached  Mr.  Carlyle,  and  spoke  in  a  low 
tone:  "Will  you  give  me  a  few  hours  for  considera- 
tion?" 

"I  am  only  too  happy  that  you  should  accord  it  con- 
sideration, for  it  speaks  to  me  of  hope,"  was  the  reply, 
as  he  opened  the  door  for  her  to  pass  out.  "I  will  be 
here  again  this  afternoon.  " 

It  was  a  perplexing  debate  that  Lady  Isabel  held 
with  herself  in  the  solitude  of  her  chamber,  whilst  Mr. 
Carlyle  touched  upon  ways  and  means  to  Lady  Mount 
Severn. 

Isabel  was  little  more  than  a  child,  and  as  a  child 
she  reasoned,  looking  neither  far  nor  deep:  the  shal- 
low, palpable  aspect  of  affairs  alone  presenting  itself 
to  her  view.  That  Mr.  Carlyle  was  not  of  equal  rank 
to  her  own,  she  scarcely  remembered;  East  Lynne 
seemed  a  very  fair  settlement  in  life,  and  in  point  of 
size,  beauty  and  importance  it  was  far  superior  to  the 
house  she  was  now  in.  She  forgot  that  her  position  in 
East  Lynne  as  Mr.  Carlyle's  wife  would  not  be  what  it 
had  been  as  Lord  Mount  Severn's  daughter;  she  forgot 
that  she  would  be  tied  to  a  quiet  home,  shut  out  from 
the  great  world,  from  the  pomps  and  vanities  to  which 
she  was  born.  She  liked  Mr.  Carlyle;  she  experienced 
pleasure  in  conversing  with  him !  she  liked  to  be  with 
him;  in  short,  but  for  that  other  ill-omened  fancy 
which  had  crept  over  her,  there  would  have  been  a 
danger  of  her  falling  in  love  with  Mr.  Carlyle.  And, 
oh!  to  be  removed  forever  from  the  bitter  dependences 
on  Lady  Mount  Severn — East  Lynne  would,  in  truth, 
after  that  seem  what  she  had  called  it,  Eden. 

"So  far  it  looks  favorable,"  mentally  exclaimed  poor 


EAST  LYNNE  75 

Isabel  J  "but  there  is  the  other  side  of  the  question.  It 
is  not  only  that  1  do  not  love  Mr.  Carlyle,  but  I  fear  I 
do  love,  or  very  nearly  love,  Francis  Levison.  I  wish 
he  would  ask  me  to  be  his  wife ! — or  that  I  had  never 
seen  him." 

Isabel's  soliloquy  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  Mrs.  Levison  and  the  countess.  What  the  latter 
had  said  to  the  old  lady  to  win  her  to  the  cause  was 
best  known  to  herself,  but  she  was  eloquent  in  it. 
They  both  used  every  possible  argument  to  induce  her 
to  accept  Mr.  Carlyle,  the  old  lady  declaring  she  had 
never  been  introduced  to  any  one  she  was  so  much 
taken  with  (and  Mrs.  Levison  was  incapable  of  assert- 
ing what  was  not  true) ;  that  he  was  worth  a  dozen 
empty-headed  men  of  the  great  world. 

Isabel  listened,  now  swayed  one  way,  now  the  other, 
and  when  the  afternoon  came,  her  head  was  aching 
with  perplexity.  The  stumbling-block  that  she  could 
not  get  over  was  Francis  Levison.  She  saw  Mr.  Car- 
lyle's  approach  from  her  window,  and  went  down  to 
the  drawing-room,  not  in  the  least  knowing  what  her 
answer  was  to  be;  a  shadowy  idea  was  presenting 
itself,  that  she  would  ask  him  for  longer  time,  and 
write  her  answer. 

In  the  drawing-room  was  Francis  Levison,  and  her 
heart  beat  v/ildly;  which  said  beating  might  have  con- 
vinced her  that  she  ought  not  to  marry  another. 
"Where  have  you  been  hiding  yourself?"  cried  he. 
•'Did  you  hear  of  our  mishap  with  the  pony  carriage?" 

"No,"  was  her  answer. 

"I  was  driving  Emma  into  town.  The  pony  took 
fright,  kicked,  plunged  and  went  down  upon  his  knees; 
she  took  fright  in  her  turn,  got  out,  and  walked  back. 
So  I  gave  the  brute  some  chastisement  and  a  race,  and 
brought  him  to  the  stables,  getting  home  in  time  to  be 
introduced  to  Mr.  Carlyle.  He  seems  an  out-and-out 
good  fellow,  Isabel,  and  I  congratulate  you." 

"What!"  she  uttered. 

"Don't  start.  We  are  all  in  the  family,  and  my  lady 
told  me;   I  don't  betray  it  abroad.      She  says  East 


76  EAST  LYNNE 

Lynne  is  a  place  to  be  coveted.  I  wish  you  happiness 
Isabel." 

"Thank  yon,"  she  returned,  in  a  sarcastic  tone, 
though  her  heart  beat  and  her  lips  quivered.  "You 
are  premature  in  your  congratulations,  Captain  Levi- 
son. " 

"Am  I?  Keep  my  good  wishes,  then,  till  the  right 
man  comes.  I  am  beyond  the  pale  myself,  and  dare 
not  think  of  entering  the  happy  state,"  he  added,  in  a 
pointed  tone.  "1  have  indulged  dreams  of  it,  like 
others,  but  I  cannot  afford  to  indulge  them  seriously; 
a  poor  man,  with  uncertain  prospects,  can  only  play 
the  butterfly,  perhaps,  to  his  life's  end." 

He  quitted  the  room  as  he  spoke.  It  was  impossible 
for  Isabel  to  misunderstand  him,  but  a  feeling  shot 
across  her  mind,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  was  false 
and  heartless.  One  of  the  servants  appeared,  showing 
in  Mr.  Carlyle ;  nothing  false  or  heartless  about  him. 
He  closed  the  door,  and  approached  her,  but  she  did 
not  speak,  and  her  lips  were  white  and  trembling. 
Mr.  Carlyle  waited.  "Well,"  he  said  at  length,  in  a 
gentle  tone,  "have  you  decided  to  grant  my  prayer?" 

"Yes.     But "    She  could  not  go  on.     What  with 

one  agitation  and  another,  she  had  difficulty  in  con- 
quering her  emotion.  "But — I  was  going  to  tell 
you " 

"Presently,"  he  whispered,  leading  her  to  a  sofa; 
"we  can  both  afford  to  wait  now.  Oh,  Isabel,  you 
have  made  me  very  happy!" 

"I  ought  to  tell  you,  I  must  tell  you,"  she  began 
again,  in  the  midst  of  hysterical   tears,     "Though   I 

have  said  'yes'  to  your  proposal,  I  do  not — yet It 

has  come  to  me  by  surprise,"  she  stammered.  "I 
like  you  very  much;  I  esteem  and  respect  you;  but  I  do 
not  yet  love  you." 

"I  should  wonder  if  you  did.  But  you  will  let  me 
earn  your  love,  Isabel?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  earnestly  answered.  "I  hope  so. " 
He  drew  her  closer  to  him,  bent  his  face,  and  took 
from  her  lips  his  first  kiss.     Isabel  was  passive;  she 


EAST  LYNNE  77 

supposed  he  had  gained  the  right  to  do  so.  '''My 
dearest!  it  is  all  I  ask." 

Mr.  Carlyle  stayed  over  the  following  day,  and 
before  he  departed  in  the  evening,  arrangements  had 
been  discussed.  The  marriage  was  to  take  place 
immediately;  all  concerned  had  a  motive  for  hurrying 
it  on.  Mr.  Carlyle  was  anxious  that  the  fair  flower 
should  be  his;  Isabel  was  sick  of  Castle  Marling,  sick 
of  some  of  the  people  in  it ;  my  lady  was  sick  of  Isabel. 
In  less  than  a  month  it  was  to  be,  and  Francis  Levison 
sneered  over  the  "indecent  haste."  Mr.  Carlyle  wrote 
to  the  earl.  Lady  Mount  Severn  announced  that  she 
should  present  Isabel  with  the  trousseau,  and  wrote  to 
London  to  order  it.  It  is  a  positive  fact  that  when  he 
was  taking  leave  of  Isabel  she  clung  to  him. 

"I  wish  I  could  take  you  now,  my  darling!"  he 
uttered.     **1  cannot  bear  to  leave  you  here." 

"I  wish  you  could!"  she  sighed.  "You  have  seen 
only  the  sunny  side  of  Lady  Mount  Severn." 


CHAPTER  XIII 


MR.    DILL  S   SHAKING 


The  sensations  of  Mr.  Carlyle  when  he  returned  to 
West  Lynne  were  very  much  like  those  of  an  Eton  boy 
who  knows  he  has  been  in  mischief  and  dreads  detec- 
tion. Always  open  as  to  his  own  affairs,  for  he  had 
nothing  to  conceal,  he  yet  deemed  it  expedient  to  dis- 
semble now.  He  felt  that  his  sister  would  be  bitter  at 
the  prospect  of  his  marrying  ;  instinct  had  taught  him 
that,  years  past;  and  he  believed  that,  of  all  women, 
the  most  objectionable  to  her  would  be  Lady  Isabel, 
for  Miss  Carlyle  looked  to  the  useful,  and  had  neither 
sympathy  nor  admiration  for  the  beautiful.  He  was  not 
sure  but  she  might  be  capable  of  endeavoring  to  frustrate 
the  marriage,  should  news  of  it  reach  her  ears,  and  her 
indomitable  will  had  carried  many  strange  things  in  her 
life;  therefore  you  will  not  blame  Mr.  Carlyle  for 
observing  entire  reticence  as  to  his  future  plans. 


78  EAST  LYNNE 

A  family  by  the  name  of  Carew  had  been  about  tak- 
ing East  Lynne;  they  wished  to  rent  it,  furnished,  for 
three  years.  Upon  some  of  the  minor  arrangements 
they  and  Mr.  Carlyle  v/ere  opposed,  but  the  latter 
declined  to  give  way.  During  his  absence  at  Castle 
Marling,  news  had  arrived  from  them— that  they 
acceded  to  all  his  termxs,  and  would  enter  upon  East 
Lynne  as  soon  as  was  convenient.  Miss  Carlyle  was 
full  of  congratulation;  it  was  off  their  hands,  she  said; 
but  the  first  letter  Mr.  Carlyle  wrote  was — to  decline 
them.  He  did  not  tell  this  to  Miss  Carlyle.  The  final 
touches  of  the  house  were  given,  preparatory  to  the 
reception  of  its  inhabitants,  three  maids  and  two  men 
servants  hired  and  sent  there,  upon  board  wages,  until 
the  family  should  arrive. 

One  evening,  three  weeks  subsequent  to  Mr.  Car- 
lyle's  visit  to  Castle  Marling,  Barbara  Hare  called  at 
Miss  Carlyle's,  and  found  them  going  to  tea,  much 
earlier  than  usual. 

"We  dined  earlier,"  said  Miss  Corny,  "and  I  ordered 
tea  in  as  soon  as  the  dinner  went  away.  Otherwise 
Archibald  would  have  taken  none." 

"I  am  as  well  without  tea,"  said  he.  "I  have  a 
mass  of  business  to  get  through  yet." 

"You  are  not  so  well  without  it,"  cried  Miss  Corny, 
"and  I  don't  choose  that  you  should  go  without  it.  Take 
off  your  bonnet,  Barbara.  He  does  things  like  nobody 
else;  he  is  off  to  Castle  Marling  to-morrow,  and  never 
could  open  his  lips  till  just  now  that  he  was  going." 

"Is  that  invalid — Brewster,  or  whatever  his  name  is 
— laid  up  at  Castle  Marling  still?"  asked  Barbara. 

"He  is  there  still,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle. 

Barbara  sat  down  to  the  tea-table,  though  protest- 
ing that  she  ought  not  to  remain,  for  she  had  told  her 
mamma  she  should  be  home  to  make  tea.  Miss  Carlyle 
interrupted  what  she  was  saying  by  telling  her  brother 
she  should  go  presently  and  pack  his  things. 

"Oh,  no,"  returned  he,  with  alarming  quickness,  "I 
will  pack  them  myself,  thank  you.  Peter,  you  can  put 
the  portemanteau  in  my  room.     The  large  one." 


EAST  LYNNE  79 

"The  large  one!"  echoed  Miss  Corny,  who  never 
could  let  anything  pass  without  her  interference, 
"why,  it's  as  big  as  a  house.  What  in  the  world  can 
you  want,  dragging  that  with  you?" 

"I  have  papers  and  things  to  take,  besides  clothes." 

"I  am  sure  I  could  pack  all  your  things  in  a  small 
one,"  persisted  Miss  Corny.  "I'll  try.  You  only  tell 
me  what  you  want  put  in.  Take  the  small  porteman- 
teau  to  5^our  master's  room,  Peter." 

Mr.  Carlyle  glanced  at  Peter,  and  Peter  glanced 
back  again  with  an  imperceptible  nod.  "I  prefer  to 
pack  my  things  myself,  Cornelia." 

Barbara  sprang  up  the  moment  the  tea  was  over. 
"1  don't  know  what  mamma  will  say  to  me.  And  it 
is  beginning  to  grow  dusk!  She  will  think  it  is  late  for 
me  to  be  out  alone." 

"Archibald  can  walk  with  you,"  said  Miss  Carlyle. 

"I  don't  know  that,"  cried  he,  in  his  plain,  open 
way.  "Dill  is  waiting  for  me  in  the  office,  and  I  have 
some  hours'  work  before  me.  However — I  suppose 
you  won't  care  to  put  up  with  Peter's  attendance;  so 
make  haste  with  your  bonnet,  Barbara." 

No  need  to  tell  Barbara  that,  when  the  choice 
between  him  and  Peter  depended  on  the  speed  she 
would  make.  She  wished  good-evening  to  Miss 
Carlyle,  and  went  out  with  him,  he  taking  her  parasol 
from  her  hand.  It  was  a  calm,  lovely  night,  very  light 
yet,  and  they  took  the  field  way. 

Barbara  could  not  forget  Isabel  Vane  She  never 
had  forgotten  her,  or  the  jealous  feeling  that  arose  in 
her  heart  at  Mr.  Carlyle's  constant  visits  to  East 
Lynne  when  she  inhabited  it.  She  returned  to  the 
subject  now.  "Archibald,  is  Lady  Isabel  likely  to 
marry?" 

"My  memory  cannot  carry  all  I  hear." 

"But  is  she?"  persisted  Barbara. 

"You  are  persevering,"  he  smiled.  "I  believe 
Lady  Isabel  is  likely  to  marry." 

Barbara  drew  a  relieved  sigh.      "Whom?" 

The  same  amused  smile  played  on  his  lips.     '*  Do  you 


80  EAST  LYNNE 

suppose  I  could  put  premature  questions?  I  may  be 
able  to  tell  you  more  about  it  after  my  next  return  from 
Castle  Marling." 

"Do  try  and  find  out,"  said  she.  "Perhaps  it  is 
Lord  Vane.  Who  is  it  says  that  more  marriages  arise 
from  habitual  association  than " 

She  stopped,  for  Mr.  Carlyle  had  turned  his  eyes 
upon  her,  and  was  laughing.  "You  are  a  clever 
guesser,  Barbara.  Lord  Vane  is  a  little  fellow  five  or 
six  years  old." 

"Oh,"  returned  Barbara,  considerably  discomfited. 

"And  the  nicest  child,"  he  warmly  continued; 
"open-tempered,  generous-hearted,  earnest-spirited. 
Should  I  have  children  of  my  own,"  he  added,  switch- 
ing the  hedge  with  the  parasol,  and  speaking  in  an 
abstracted  manner,  as  if  forgetful  of  his  companion, 
"I  could  wish  them  to  be  like  William  Vane." 

"A  very  important  confession,"  gayly  returned  Bar- 
bara. "After  contriving  to  impress  West  Lynne  with 
the  conviction  that  you  would  be  an  old  bachelor." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  promised  West  Lynne 
anvthing  of  the  sort,"  cried  Carlyle. 

Barbara  laughed  now.  "I  suppose  West  Lynne 
judges  by  appearances.  When  a  man  owns  to  thirty 
years " 

"Which  I  don't  do,"  interrupted  Mr.  Carlyle,  con- 
siderably damaging  the  hedge  and  the  parasol.  "I 
may  be  an  old  married  man  before  I  count  thirty;  the 
chances  are  that  I  shall  be." 

"Then  you  must  have  fixed  upon  your  wife, ",  she 
quickly  cried. 

"I  do  not  say  I  have  not,  Barbara.  All  in  good  time 
to  proclaim  it,  though."  Barbara  withdrew  her  arm 
from  Mr.  Carlyle 's  under  pretense  of  repinning  her 
shawl.  Her  heart  was  beating,  her  whole  frame 
trembling,  and  she  feared  he  might  detect  her  emo- 
tions. She  never  thought  he  could  allude  to  any  one 
but  herself.      Poor  Barbara! 

"How  flushed  you  look,  Barbara!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Havel  walked  too  fast?"      She  seemed  not  to  hear, 


EAST  LYNNE  81 

intent  upon  her  shawl.  Then  she  took  his  arm  again, 
and  they  walked  on,  Mr,  Carlyle  striking-  the  hedge 
and  the  grass  more  industriously  than  ever.  Another 
minute  and — the  handle  was  in  two. 

"I  thought  you  would  do  it,"  said  Barbara,  while 
he  was  regarding  the  parasol  with  ludicrous  dismay. 
"Never  mind;  it  is  an  old  one." 

"I  will  bring  you  another  to  replace  it.  What  is  the 
color?  Brown.  I  won't  forget.  Hold  the  relics  a 
minute,  Barbara." 

He  put  the  pieces  in  her  hand,  and  taking  out  a  note- 
case, made  a  note  in  pencil.  "What's  that  for?"  she 
inquired.  He  held  it  close  to  her  eyes,  that  she  might 
discern  what  he  had  written:  "Brown  parasol. 
B.  H. "  "A  reminder  for  me,  Barbara,  in  case  I 
forget." 

Barbara's  eye  detected  another  item  or  two,  already 
entered  in  the  note-case:  "Piano."  "Plate."  "I  jot 
down  the  things  as  they  occur  to  me,  that  I  must  get 
in  London,"  he  explained.  "Otherwise  I  should  for- 
get half." 

"In  London!  I  thought  you  were  going  in  an 
opposite  direction;  to  Castle  Marling." 

It  was  a  slip  of  the  tongue,  but  Mr.  Carlyle  repaired 
it.  "I  may  probably  have  to  visit  London  as  well  as 
Castle  Marling.  How  bright  the  moon  looks,  rising 
there,  Barbara!" 

"So  bright — that,  or  the  sky — that  I  saw  your 
secrets,"  answered  she.  "Piano!  Plate!  What  can 
you  want  with  either,  Archibald?" 

"Oh,  for  the  Carews. "  And  her  interest  in  the 
items  was  gone. 

"Archibald,  I  have  long  wished  to  ask  you  some- 
thing," said  Barbara  at  the  gate.  "You  will  not  deem 
me  foolish?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"When  you  gave  me  the  gold  chain  and  locket  a 
year  ago — you  remember?" 

"Yes.     Well?" 

"I  put  some  of  that  hair  of  Richard's  in  it,  and  a  bit 


82  EAST  LYNNE 

of  Anne's,  and  of  mamma's;  a  tiny  little  bit  of  each. 
And  there  is  room  for  more,  you  see." 

She  held  it  out  to  him  as  she  spoke,  for  she  always 
wore  it  round  her  neck,  attached  to  the  chain. 

''I  cannot  see  well  by  this  light,  Barbara.  If  there 
is  room  for  more,  what  of  that?" 

"I  like  to  think  that  I  possess  a  memento  of  my  best 
friends,  or  of  those  who  were  dear  to  me.  I  wish  you 
to  give  me  a  bit  of  your  hair  to  put  with  the  rest — as 
it  was  you  who  gave  me  the  locket. " 

"My  hair!"  returned  Mr.  Carlyle,  in  a  tone  of  as 
much  astonishment  as  if  she  had  asked  for  his  head. 
"What  good  would  that  do  you,  Barbara,  or  the  locket 
either?" 

Her  face  flushed  painfully;  her  heart  beat.  "I  like 
to  have  a  remembrance  of  the  friends  I — I  care  for," 
she  stammered.     "Nothing  more,  Archibald." 

He  detected  neither  the  emotion  nor  the  depth  of  feel- 
ing, the  sort  of  feeling  that  had  prompted  the  request, 
and  he  met  it  with  good-natured  ridicule.  "What  a 
pity  you  did  not  tell  me  yesterday,  Barbara!  I  had 
my  hair  cut  and  might  have  sent  you  the  snippings. 
Don't  be  a  goose,  child,  and  exalt  me  into  a  Welling- 
ton, to  bestow  hair  and  autographs.  I  can't  stop  a 
minute  longer.     Good-night." 

He  hastened  away  with  quick  strides,  and  Barbara 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "What  have  I  done? 
what  have  I  done?"  she  reiterated  aloud.  "Is  it  in 
his  nature  to  be  thus  indifferent — matter  of  fact?  Has 
he  no  sentiment?  But  it  will  come.  Oh,  the  bliss  this 
night  has  brought  forth !  there  was  truth  in  his  tone 
beneath  its  vein  of  mockery,  when  he  spoke  of  his 
chosen  wife.  I  need  not  go  far  to  guess  who  it  is — he 
has  told  no  one  else,  and  he  pays  attention  to  none 
but  me.  Archibald,  when  once  I  am  your  wife  you 
shall  know  how  fondly  I  love  you ;  you  cannot  know 
till  then." 

She  lifted  her  fair  young  face,  t)eautiful  in  its  radi- 
ance, and  gazed  at  the  deepening  moonlight,  then 
turned  away  and  pursued  her  path  up  the  garden-walk, 


EAST  LYNNE  83 

unconscious  that  something,  wearing  a  bonnet,  pushed 
its  head  beyond  the  trees  to  steal  a  look  after  her. 
Barbara  would  have  said  less  had  she  divined  there 
was  a  third  party  to  the  interview. 

It  was  three  mornings  after  the  departure  of  ]\Ir. 
Carlyle  that  Mr.  Dill  appeared  before  Miss  Carlyle, 
bearing  a  letter.  She  was  busy  regarding  the  effect 
of  some  new  muslin  curtains,  just  put  up,  and  did  not 
pay  attention  to  him. 

"Will  you  please  take  the  letter.  Miss  Cornelia? 
The  postman  left  it  in  the  office  with  ours.  It  is  from 
Mr.  Archibald." 

"Why,  what  has  he  got  to  write  to  me  about?" 
retorted  Miss  Corny.  "Does  he  say  when  he  is  com- 
ing home?" 

"You  had  better  see,  Miss  Cornelia.  He  does  not 
say  anything  about  his  return  in  mine." 

She  opened  the  letter,  glanced  at  it,  and  sank  down 
on  a  chair,  more  overcome,  more  stupefied  than  she 
had  felt  in  her  whole  life. 

Castle  Marling,  May  ist. 
"My  Dear  Cornelia: — I  was  married  this  morning 
to  Lady  Isabel  Vane,  and  hasten  briefly  to  acquaint 
you  with  the  fact.  I  will  write  you  more  fully  to-mor- 
row or  the  next  day,  and  explain  all  things.  Ever 
your  affectionate  brother, 

"Archibald  Carlyle." 

"It  is  a  hoax,"  were  the  first  guttural  sounds  that 
escaped  from  Miss  Carlyle's  throat,  when  speech  came 
to  her. 

Mr.  Dill  only  stood  like  a  stone  image. 

"It  is  a  hoax,  I  say,"  raved  Miss  Carlyle.  "What 
are  you  standing  there  for,  like  a  gander,  on  one  leg?" 
she  reiterated,  venting  her  anger  upon  the  unoffending 
man.     "Is  it  a  hoax,  or  not?" 

"I  am  overdone  with  amazement,  Miss  Corny.  It 
is  not  a  hoax;  I  have  had  a  letter,  too." 

"It  can't  be  true;  it  can't  be  true.     He  had  no  more 


84  EAST  LYNNE 

thought  of  being-  married  when  he  left  here,  thret*  days 
ago,  than  I  have." 

"How  can  we  tell  that.  Miss  Corny?  How  are  we  to 
know  he  did  not  go  to  be  married?  I  fancy  he 
did." 

"Go  to  be  married!"  shrieked  Miss  Corny,  in  a  pas- 
sion, "he  would  not  be  such  a  fool.  And  to  that  fine 
lady-child!     No,  no." 

"He  has  sent  this  to  be  put  in  the  county  journals," 
said  Mr.  Dill,  holding  forth  a  scrap  of  paper.  "They 
are  married,  sure  enough." 

Miss  Carlyle  took  it  and  held  it  before  her;  her  hand 
was  cold  as  ice,  and  shook  as  if  with  palsy.  "Married : 
On  the  ist  inst.,  at  Castle  Marling,  by  the  chaplain 
to  the  Earl  of  Mount  Severn,  Archibald  Carlyle, 
Esquire,  of  East  Lynne,  to  the  Lady  Isabel  Mary 
Vane,  only  child  of  William,  late  Earl  of  Mount 
Severn." 

"I  will  never  forgive  him, "  she  deliberately  uttered, 
"and  I  will  never  forgive  or  tolerate  her.  The  sense- 
less idiot!  to  go  and  marry  Mount  Severn's  expensive 
daughter!  a  thing  who  goes  to  court  in  feathers  and  a 
train — streaming  out  three  yards  behind  her!" 

"He  is  not  an  idiot.  Miss  Cornelia." 

"He  is  worse;  he  is  a  wicked  madman, "  she  retorted, 
in  a  midway  state  between  rage  and  tears.  "He 
must  have  been  stark,  staring  mad  to  go  and  do  it ; 
and  had  1  gathered  an  inkling  of  the  project  I  would 
have  taken  out  a  commission  of  lunac}^  against  him. 
Ah,  you  may  stare,  old  Dill,  but  I  v/ould,  as  truly  as 
I  hope  to  have  my  sins  forgiven.  Where  are  they  to 
live?" 

"I  expect  they  will  live  at  East  Lynne." 

"What?"  screamed  Miss  Corny.  "Live  at  East 
Lynne  with  the  Carews!  You  are  eoing  mad,  too,  I 
think." 

"The  negotiation  with  the  Carews  is  off.  Miss  Cor- 
nelia. When  Mr.  Archibald  returned  from  Castle 
Marling,  at  Easter,  he  wrote  to  decline  them.  I  saw 
the  copy  of  the  letter  in  the  cojpying-book.      I  expected 


EAST  LYNNE  85 

he  had  settled  matters  then  with  Lady  Isabel,  and  had 
decided  to  keep  East  Lynne  for  himself." 

Miss  Carlyle's  month  had  opened  with  consternation. 
Recovering  partially,  she  rose  from  her  seat,  and  draw- 
ing herself  to  her  full  and  majestic  height,  she 
advanced  behind  the  astonished  gentleman,  seized  the 
collar  of  his  coat  with  both  hands  and  shook  him  for 
several  minutes.  Poor  old  Dill,  short  and  slight,  was 
as  a  puppet  in  her  hands,  and  thought  his  breath  had 
gone  forever. 

"I  would  have  had  out  a  lunacy  commission  for  you 
also,  you  sly  villain !  You  are  in  the  plot ;  you  have 
been  aiding  and  abetting  him ;  you  knew  as  much  of 
it  as  he  did." 

*'I  declare  solemnly,  to  the  Goodness  that  made  me, 
I  did  not,"  gasped  the  ill-tempered  man,  when  he  could 
gather  speech.  ''I  am  as  innocent  as  a  baby,  Miss 
Corny.  When  I  got  the  letter  just  now  in  the  office, 
you  might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather." 

She  sat  down  as  soon  as  she  was  alone,  and  her  face 
assumed  a  stony,  rigid  look.  Her  hands  fell  upon 
her  knees,  and  Mr.  Carlyle's  letter  dropped  to  the 
ground.  After  a  while  her  features  began  to  work,  and 
she  nodded  her  head,  and  lifted,  now  one  hand,  now 
the  other,  apparently  debating  various  points  in  her 
own  mind.  By-and-by  she  rose,  attired  herself  in  her 
bonnet  and  shawl,  and  took  the  way  to  Justice  Hare's. 
She  felt  that  the  news  which  would  be  poured  out  to 
West  Lynne  before  the  day  was  over  did  reflect  a  slight 
upon  herself  her  much-loved  brother  had  forsaken 
her,  to  take  to  himself  one,  nearer  and  dearer,  and 
had  done  it  in  dissimulation;  therefore  she  herself 
would  be  the  first  to  proclaim  it  far  and  wide. 

Barbara  was  at  the  window  in  the  usual  sitting-room 
as  Miss  Corny  entered  the  Grove.  A  grim  smile,  in 
spite  of  her  outraged  feelings,  crossed  that  lady's  lips, 
when  she  thought  of  the  blow  about  to  be  dealt  out  to 
Barbara.  Very  clearly  had  she  penetrated  to  the  love 
of  that  young  lady  for  Archibald;  to  her  hopes  of 
becoming  his  wife. 


86  EAST  LYNNE 

*'What  brings  Cornelia  here?"  thought  Barbara. 

Miss  Carlyle  came  in  and  emitted  a  few  dismal 
groans,  by  way  of  preliminary. 

Barbara  turned  to  her  quickly.  "Are  you  ill? 
Has  anything  upset  you?" 

"Upset  me!  you  may  say  that!"  ejaculated  Miss 
Corny,  in  wrath.  "It  has  turned  my  heart  and  my 
feelings  inside  out.  My  wise  brother  Archibald  has 
gone  and  made  a  fool  of  himself,  Barbara,  and  now  is 
coming  home  to  live  at  East  Lynne. " 

Though  there  was  much  that  was  unintelligible  to 
Barbara  in  this,  she  could  not  suppress  the  flush  of  grat- 
ification that  rose  to  her  cheek  and  dyed  it  with 
blushes.  "You  are  going  to  be  taken  down  a  notch 
or  two,  my  lady,"  thought  the  clear-sighted  Miss 
Carlyle.  "The  news  fell  upon  me  this  morning  like  a 
thunderbolt,"  she  said  aloud.  "Old  Dill  brought  it 
to  me.     I  shook  him  for  his  pains." 

"Shook old  Dill!"  reiterated  the  wondering  Barbara. 

"1  shook  him  till  my  arms  ached.  He  won't  forget 
it  in  a  hurry.  He  has  been  abetting  Archibald  in  his 
wickedness;  concealing  things  from  me  that  he  ought 
to  have  come  and  declared ;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
can't  have  the  two  indicted  for  conspiracy." 

Barbara  sat,  all  amazement,  without  the  faintest 
idea  of  what  Miss  Corny  could  be  driving  at. 

"You  remember  that  child.  Mount  Severn's  daugh- 
ter? I  think  I  see  her  now,  coming  into  the  concert- 
room  in  her  white  robes  and  her  jewels  and  her  flow- 
ing hair,  looking  like  a  young  princess  in  a  fairy-tale 
— all  very  well  for  her,  for  what  she  is,  but  not  for 
us." 

"What  of  her?"  uttered  Barbara. 

"Archibald  has  married  her!"  In  spite  of  Barbara's 
full  consciousness  that  she  was  before  the  penetrating 
eyes  of  Miss  Corny,  and  in  spite  of  her  own  efforts  for 
calmness,  every  feature  in  her  face  turned  of  a  ghastly 
whiteness.  But,  like  Miss  Carlyle.  she  at  first  took 
refuge  in  disbelief. 

"It  is  not  true,  Cornelia." 


EAST  LYNNE  SI 

**It  is  quite  true.  They  were  married  yesterday  at 
Castle  Marling,  by  Lord  Mount  Severn's  chaplain. 
Had  I  known  it  then,  and  could  I  have  got  there,  I 
might  have  contrived  to  part  them,  though  the  church 
ceremony  had  passed;  I  should  have  tried.  But/ 
added  the  plain-speaking  Miss  Corny,  "yesterday  was 
one  thing  and  to-day's  another;  and  of  course  nothing 
can  be  done  now." 

"Excuse  me  an  instant,"  gasped  Barbara,  in  a  low 
tone,  "1  forgot  to  give  an  order  mamma  left  for  tne 
servants." 

An  order  for  the  servants  I  She  swiftly  passed  up- 
stairs to  her  own  room,  and  flung  herself  down  on  the 
floor  in  utter  anguish.  The  past  had  cleared  itself  of 
its  mists;  the  scales  that  were  before  Barbara's  eyes 
had  fallen  from  them.  She  saw  now  that  while  she 
had  cherished  false  and  delusive  hopes  in  her  almost 
idolatrous  passion  for  Archibald  Carlyle,  she  had  never 
been  cared  for  by  him.  Even  the  previous  night  she 
had  lain  awake  some  of  its  hours,  indulging  dreams  of 
the  sweetest  fantasy — and  that  was  the  night  of  his 
wedding-day!  With  a  sharp  wail  of  despair,  Barbara 
flung  her  arms  up  and  closed  her  aching  eyes;  she 
knew  that  from  that  hour  her  life's  sunshine  had 
departed. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   earl's   astonishment 

The  announcement  of  the  marriage  in  the  news- 
papers was  the  first  intimation  of  it  Lord  Mount  Severn 
received.  He  was  little  less  thunderstruck  than  Miss 
Corny,  and  came  steaming  to  England  the  same  day, 
thereby  missing  his  wife's  letter,  which  gave  her  version 
of  the  affair.  He  met  Mr.  Carlyle  and  Lady  Isabel  in 
London,  where  they  were  staying  at  one  of  the  West 
End  hotels  for  a  day  or  two;  they  were  going  further. 
Isabel  was  alone  when  the  earl  was  announced. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this,   Isabel?"  began  he, 


88  EAST  LYNNE 

without  circumlocution  of  greeting.  "You  are 
married?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  her  pretty,  innocent 
blush.     "Some  days  ago. " 

"And  to  Carlyle,  the  lawyer!  How  did  it  come 
about?" 

Isabel  began  to  think  how  it  had  come  about, 
sufficiently  to  give  a  clear  answer.  "He  asked  me," 
she  said,  "and  I  accepted  him.  He  came  to  Castle 
Marling  at  Easter,  and  asked  me  then.  I  was  very 
much  surprised." 

The  earl  looked  at  her  attentively.  "Why  was  I 
kept  in  ignorance  of  this,  Isabel?" 

"I  did  not  know  you  were  kept  in  ignorance  of  it. 
Mr.  Carlyle  wrote  to  you,  as  did  Lady  Mount  Severn, " 

Lord  Mount  Severn  was  as  a  man  in  the  dark,  and 
looked  like  it.  "I  suppose  this  comes, "  soliloquized 
he  aloud,  "of  your  father's  having  allowed  the 
gentleman  to  dance  daily  attendance  at  East  Lynne. 
And  so  you  fell  in  love  with  him?" 

"Indeed,  no,"  answered  she,  in  an  amused  tone.  "I 
never  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  falling  in  love  with 
Mr.  Carlyle." 

"Then  don't  you  love  him?"  abruptly  asked  the  earl. 

"No!"  she  whispered,  timidly.  "But  I  like  him 
much — oh,  very  much.     And  he  is  so  good  to  me." 

The  earl  stroked  his  chin  and  mused.  Isabel  had 
destroyed  the  only  conclusion  he  had  been  able  to 
come  to  as  to  the  motives  for  the  hasty  marriage.  "If 
you  do  not  love  Mr.  Carlyle,  how  comes  it  that  you 
are  so  wise  in  the  distinction  between  'liking'  and 
*love?'     It  cannot  be  that  you  love  anybody  else?" 

The  question  told  home,  and  Isabel  turned  crimson. 
"I  shall  love  my  husband  in  time,"  was  all  she 
answered,  as  she  bent  her  head,  and  played  nervously 
with  her  watch  chain. 

"My  poor  child!"  involuntarily  exclaimed  the  earl. 
But  he  was  one  who  liked  to  fathom  the  depth  of 
everything.  "Who  has  been  staying  at  Castle  Marling 
since  I  left?"  he  asked,  sharply. 


EAST  LYNNE  89 

**Mrs.  Levison  came  down. " 

"I  alluded  to  gentlemen — young  men." 

"Only  Francis  Levison,"  she  replied. 

"Francis  Levison!  You  have  never  been  so  foolish 
as  to  fall  in  love  with  him?" 

The  question  was  so  pointed,  so  abrupt,  and  Isabel's 
self-consciousness  moreover  so  great,  that  she  betrayed 
lamentable  confusion;  and  the  earl  had  no  further 
need  to  ask.  Pity  stole  into  his  hard  eyes  as  they  fixed 
themselves  on  her  downcast,  glowing  face.  "Isabel," 
he  gravely  began,  "Captain  Levison  is  not  a  good 
man;  if  ever  you  were  inclined  to  think  him  one,  dis- 
possess your  mind  of  that  idea,  and  hold  him  at  arm's 
distance.  Drop  his  acquaintance,  encourage  no  inti- 
macy with  him." 

"I  have  already  dropped  it,"  said  Isabel,  "and  I 
shall  not  take  it  up  again.  But  Lady  Mount  Severn 
must  think  well  of  him,  or  she  would  not  have  him 
there." 

"She  thinks  none  too  well  of  him;  none  can  of 
Francis  Levison,"  returned  the  earl,  significantly. 
"He  is  her  cousin,  and  is  one  of  those  idle,  vain, 
empty-headed  flatterers  whom  it  is  her  pleasure  to 
group  about  her.  Do  you  be  wiser,  Isabel.  But 
this  does  not  solve  the  enigma  of  your  marriage  with 
Carlyle ;  on  the  contrary,  it  renders  it  the  more  unac- 
countable.     He  must  have  cajoled  you  into  it." 

Before  Isabel  could  reply,  Mr.  Carlyle  entered.  He 
held  out  his  hand  to  the  earl;  the  earl  did  not  appear 
to  see  it. 

"Isabel"  said  he,  "I  am  sorry  to  turn  you  out;  I 
suppose  you  have  only  this  one  sitting-room.  I  wish 
to  say  a  few  words  to  Mr.  Carlyle."  She  quitted  them, 
and  the  earl  wheeled  round  and  faced  Mr.  Carlyle, 
speaking  in  a  stern,  haughty  tone:  "How  came  this 
mxarriage  about,  sir?  Do  you  possess  so  little  honor, 
that,  taking  advantage  of  my  absence,  you  must 
intrude  yourself  into  my  family,  and  clandestinely 
espouse  Lady  Isabel  Vane?" 

"There  has  been  nothing  clandestine  in  my  conduct 


^  EAST  LYNNE 

toward  Lady  Isabel  Vane ;  there  shall  be  nothing  but 
honor  in  my  conduct  toward  Lady  Isabel  Carlyle. 
Your  lordship  has  been  misinformed." 

"I  have  not  been  informed  at  all,"  retorted  the  earl, 
"I  was  allowed  to  learn  this  from  the  public  papers; 
I,  the  only  relative  of  Lady  Isabel." 

"When  I  proposed  for  Lady  Isabel " 

**But  a  month  ago,"  sarcastically  interrupted  the 
earl. 

"But  a  month  ago,"  calmly  repeated  Mr.  Carlyle, 
"my  first  action,  after  Isabel  accepted  me,  was  to 
write  to  you.  Lady  Mount  Severn  could  not  give  me 
your  address.  She  said  if  I  would  intrust  the  letter  to 
her  she  would  forward  it,  for  she  expected  daily  to 
'hear  from  you.  I  did  give  her  the  letter,  and  I  heard 
no  more  of  the  matter,  except  that  her  ladyship  sent 
me  a  message,  when  Isabel  was  writing  to  me,  that  as 
yoi}  had  returned  no  reply,  you  of  course  approved." 

"Is  this  the  fact?"  cried  the  earl, 

"My  lord!"  coldly  replied  Mr.  Carlyle.  "Whatever 
ma}''  be  my  defects  in  your  eyes,  I  am  at  least  a  man 
of  truth.  Until  this  moment  the  suspicion  that  you 
were  in  ignorance  of  the  contemplated  marriage  never 
occurred  to  me." 

"So  far,  then,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Carlyle.  But 
how  came  the  marriage  about  at  all?  how  came  it  to 
be  hurried  over  in  this  unseemly  fashion?  You  made 
the  offer  at  Easter,  Isabel  tells  me,  and  you  married 
her  three  weeks  after  it." 

"And  I  would  have  married  her  and  brought  her 
away  the  day  I  made  it,  had  it  been  practicable,'' 
returned  Mr.  Carlyle.  "I  have  acted  throughout  for 
her  comfort  and  happiness." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  returned  the  earl,  returning  to  his 
disagreeable  tone.  "Perhaps  you  will  put  me  in  pos- 
session of  the  facts,  and  of  your  motives." 

"I  warn  you  that  the  facts,  to  you,  will  not  bear  a 
pleasant  sound.  Lord  Mount  Severn."  "Allow  me  to 
be  the  judge  of  that,"  said  the  earl. 

"Business   took    me    to    Castle    Marling    on    Good 


EAST  LYNNE  91 

Friday.  On  the  following-  day  I  called  at  your  house; 
after  your  own  and  Isabel's  invitation,  it  was  natural 
I  should  call;  in  fact,  it  would  have  been  a  breach  of 
good  feeling  not  to  do  so.  I  found  Isabel  ill-treated 
and  miserable;  far  from  enjoying  a  happy  home  in 
your  house " 

"What,  sir?"  interrupted  the  earl.  "Ill-treated  and 
miserable?" 

"Ill-treated,  even  to  blows,  my  lord." 

The  earl  stood  as  one  petrified,  staring  at  Mr. 
Carlyle. 

"I  learnt  it,  I  must  premise,  through  the  chattering 
revelations  of  your  little  son ;  Isabel,  of  course,  would 
not  have  mentioned  it  to  me;  but  when  the  child  had 
spoken  she  did  not  deny  it.  In  short,  she  was  too 
broken-hearted,  too  completely  bowed  in  spirit,  to 
deny  it.  It  aroused  all  my  feelings  of  indignation ;  it 
excited  in  me  an  irresistible  desire  to  emancipate  her 
from  this  cruel  life,  and  take  her  where  she  would  find 
affection  and — I  hope — happiness.  There  was  only 
one  way  in  which  I  could  do  this,  and  I  risked  it.  I 
asked  her  to  become  my  wife,  and  to  return  to  her 
home  at  East  Lynne. " 

The  earl  was  slowly  recovering  from  his  petrification. 
"Then  am  I  to  understand  that  when  you  called  that 
day  at  my  house,  you  carried  no  intention  with  you  of 
proposing  to  Isabel?" 

"Not  any.  It  was  a  sudden  step,  the  circumstances 
under  which  I  found  her  calling  it  forth." 

The  earl  paced  the  room,  perplexed  still,  and  evi- 
dently disturbed.  "May  I  inquire  if  you  love  her?"  he 
abruptly  said. 

Mr.  Carlyle  paused  ere  he  spoke,  and  a  red  flush 
dyed  his  face.  "Those  are  feelings  man  rarely 
ac!k;nowledges  to  man,  Lord  Mount  Severn,  but  I  will 
answer  you.  I  do  love  her,  passionately  and  sincerely. 
I  learnt  to  love  her  at  East  Lynne ;  but  I  could  have 
carried  my  love  silently  within  me  to  the  end  of  my 
life,  and  never  betrayed  it,  but  for  that  unexpected 
visit  to  Castle  Marling,     If  the  idea  of  making  her  my 


92  EAST  LYNNE 

wife  had  not  previously  occurred  to  me  as  practicable, 
it  was  that  1  deemed  her  rank  incompatible  with  my 
own." 

"As  it  was,"  said  the  earl. 

"Country  solicitors  have  married  peers'  daughters 
before  now,"  remarked  Mr.  Carlyle.  "I  only  add 
•another  to  the  list." 

"But  you  cannot  keep  her  as  a  peer's  daughter,  I 
presume?" 

"East  Lynne  will  be  her  homxC.  Our  establishment 
will  be  small  and  quiet,  as  compared  with  her  father's. 
I  explained  to  Isabel  how  quiet  at  the  first,  and  she 
might  have  retracted,  had  she  wished ;  I  explained  also 
in  full  to  Lady  Mount  Severn.  East  Lynne  will 
descend  to  our  eldest  son,  should  we  have  children. 
My  profession  is  most  lucrative,  my  income  good;  were 
I  to  die  to-morrow,  Isabel  would  enjoy  East  Lynne, 
and  about  three  thousand  pounds  per  annum.  1  gave 
these  details  in  the  letter  which  appears  to  have  mis- 
carried." 

The  earl  made  no  immediate  reply;  he  was  absorbed 
in  thought. 

"Your  lordship  perceives,  I  hope,  that  there  has  been 
nothing 'clandestine'  in  my  conduct  to  Lady  Isabel." 

Lord  Mount  Severn  held  out  his  hand.  "I  refused 
my  hand  when  you  came  in,  Mr.  Carlyle,  as  you  may 
have  observed;  perhaps  you  will  refuse  yours  now, 
though  I  should  be  proud  to  shake  it.  When  I  find 
myself  in  the  wrong,  I  am  not  above  acknowledging 
the  fact;  and  I  must  state  my  opinion  that  you  have 
behaved  most  kindly  and  honorably." 

Mr.  Carlyle  smiled  and  put  his  hand  into  the  earl's. 
The  latter  retained  it,  while  he  spoke  in  a  whisper. 
"Of  course  1  cannot  be  ignorant  that,  in  speaking  of 
Isabel's  ill-treatment,  you  alluded  to  my  wife.  Has  it 
transpired  beyond  yourselves?" 

"You  may  be  sure  that  neither  Isabel  nor  myself 
would  mention  it ;  we  shall  dismiss  it  from  among  our 
reminiscences.  Let  it  be  as  though  you  had  never 
heard  it;  it  is  past  and  done  with." 


EAST  LYNNE  93 

* 'Isabel,"  said  the  earl,  as  he  was  departing  that 
evening,  for  he  remained  to  spend  the  day  with  them, 
*'I  came  here  this  morning  almost  prepared  to  strike 
your  husband,  and  1  go  away  honoring  him.  Be  a  good 
and  faithful  wife  to  him,  for  he  deserves  it." 

'.'Of  course,  I  shall,"  she  answered  in  surprise. 

Lord  Mount  Severn  went  on  to  Castle  Marling,  and 
there  he  had  a  stormy  interview  with  his  wife;  so 
stormy  that  the  sounds  penetrated  to  the  ears  of  the 
domestics.  He  left  it  again  the  same  day,  in  anger, 
and  proceeded  to  Mount  Severn.  '*He  will  have  time 
to  cool  down  before  we  meet  in  London,"  was  the 
comment  of  my  lady. 


CHAPTER  XV 

COMING   HOME 

Miss  Carlyle  quitted  her  own  house,  and  removed  to 
East  Lynne  with  Peter  and  two  of  her  hand-maidens. 
In  spite  of  Mr.  Dill's  grieved  remonstrances,  she  dis- 
charged the  servants  whom  Mr.  Carl3^1e  had  engaged, 
all  save  one  man. 

On  a  Friday  night,  about  a  month  after  the  wed- 
ding, Mr.  Carlyle  and  his  wife  came  home.  They 
were  expected,  and  Miss  Carlyle  went  through  the 
hall  to  receive  them,  and  stood  on  the  npper  steps, 
between  the  pillars  of  the  portico. 

"You  here,  Cornelia!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carlyle, 
''That  is  kind.  How  are  you?  Isabel,  this  is  my 
sister."  Lady  Isabel  put  forth  her  hand,  and  Miss 
Carlyle  condescended  to  touch  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 
"I  hope  you  are  well,  ma'am,"  she  jerked  out. 

Mr.  Carlyle  left  them  together,  and  went  back  to 
search  for  some  trifles  which  had  been  left  in  the  car- 
riage. Miss  Carlyle  led  the  way  to  a  sitting-room, 
where  the  supper-tray  was  laid.  "You  w^ould  like  to 
go  upstairs  and  take  your  things  off  before  supper, 
ma'am?"  she  said,  in  the  same  jerking  tone,  to  Lady 
Isabel. 


94  EAST  LYNNE 

* 'Thank  you.  1  will  go  to  my  rooms,  but  I  do  not 
require  supper.     We  have  dined." 

"Then  what  would  you  like  to  take?"  asked  Miss 
Corny. 

"Some  tea,  if  you  please.      I  am  very  thirsty." 

"Tea!"  ejaculated  Miss  Corny.  "So  late  as  this!  I 
don't  know  that  they  have  any  boiling  water.  You'd 
never  sleep  a  wink  all  night,  ma'am,  if  you  took  tea  at 
eleven  o'clock." 

"Oh — then  never  mind,"  replied  Lady  Isabel.  "It 
is  of  no  consequence.     Do  not  let  me  give  trouble." 

Miss  Carlyle  whisked  out  of  the  room;  upon  what 
errand  was  best  known  to  herself;  and  in  the  hall  she 
and  Marvel  came  to  an  encounter.  No  words  passed, 
but  each  eyed  the  other  grimly.  Marvel  was  very 
stylish,  with  five  flounces  to  her  dress,  a  veil  and  a 
parasol.  Meanwhile  Lady  Isabel  sat  down  and  burst 
into  tears  and  sobs.  A  chill  had  come  over  her;  it  did 
not  seem  like  coming  home  to  East  Lynne.  Mr.  Car- 
lyle entered  and  witnessed  the  grief.  "Isabel!"  he 
uttered  in  amazement,  as  he  hastened  up  to  her.  "My 
darling,  what  ails  you?" 

"I  am  tired,  I  think,"  she  gently  answered,  "and 
coming  into  the  house  again  made  me  think  of  papa. 
I  should  like  to  go  to  my  rooms,"  Archibald,  but  I  don't 
know  which  they  are." 

Neither  did  Mr.  Carlyle  know,  but  Miss  Carlyle  came 
whisking  in  again,  and  said,  "the  best  rooms;  those 
next  the  library.     Should  she  go  up  with  my  lady?" 

Mr.  Carlyle  preferred  to  go  himself,  and  he  held  out 
his  arm  to  Isabel.  She  drew  her  veil  over  her  face  as 
she  passed  Miss  Carlyle. 

The  branches  were  not  lighted,  and  the  room  looked 
cold  and  comfortless.  "Things  seem  all  at  sixes  and 
sevens  in  the  house,"  remarked  Mr.  Carlyle.  "I  fancy 
the  servants  must  have  misunderstood  my  letter,  and 
not  have  expected  us  until  to-morrow  night." 

"Archibald,"  she  said,  taking  off  her  bonnet,  *'I  do 
feel  very  tired,  and — and — low-spirited ;  may  I  undress 
at  once,  and  not  go  down  again  to-night?" 


EAST  LYNNE  95 

He  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  "May  you  not  go 
down  again?  Have  you  forgotten  that  you  are  at  last 
in  your  own  home?  A  happy  home,  I  trust  it  will  be, 
my  darling;  I  will  strive  to  render  it  so." 

She  leaned  upon  him  and  sobbed  aloud.  He  ten- 
derly bore  with  her  mood,  soothing  her  to  composure, 
gently  kissing  the  face  she  held  to  him,  now  and  then. 
Oh,  his  was  a  true  heart;  he  fervently  intended  to 
cherish  this  fair  flower  he  had  won;  but  alas!  it  was 
just  possible  he  might  miss  the  way,  unless  he  could 
emancipate  himself  from  his  sister's  thralldom.  Isabel 
did  not  love  him;  of  that  she  was  conscious;  but  her 
deep  and  earnest  hope  by  night  and  day  was  that  she 
might  learn  to  love  him,  for  she  knew  that  he 
deserved  it. 

Mr.  Carlyle  qtiitted  the  room  and  sought  his  sister, 
who,  finding  she  was  co  be  the  only  one  to  take  supper, 
was  then  helping  herself  to  the  wing  of  a  fowl.  She 
had  chosen,  that  day,  to  dine  early.  "Cornelia,"  he 
began,  "I  do  not  understand  all  this.  I  don't  see  my 
servants  and  I  see  yours.     Where  are  mine?" 

"Gone  away,"  said  Miss  Carlyle,  in  her  decisive, 
off-hand  manner.  "Gone  away?"  responded  Mr.  Car- 
lyle. "What  for?  I  believe  they  were  excellent  ser- 
vants." 

"Very  excellent !  Decking  themselves  out  in  buff 
mousseliiie-de'laine  dresses  on  a  Saturday  morning,  and 
fine  caps  garnished  with  peach.  Never  attempt  to 
dabble  in  domestic  matters  again,  Archibald,  for  you 
only  get  taken  in.     Cut  me  a  slice  of  that  tongue." 

"But  in  what  did  they  do  wrong?"  he  repeated,  as 
he  obeyed  her. 

"Archibald  Carlyle,  how  could  you  go  and  make  a 
fool  of  yourself?  If  you  must  have  married,  were 
there  not  plenty  of  young  ladies  in  your  own  sphere  of 
society " 

''Stay,"  he  interrupted.  "I  wrote  you  a  full  state- 
ment of  my  motives  and  actions,  Cornelia;  I  concealed 
nothing  that  it  was  necessary  you  should  know ;  I  am 
not  disposed  to  enter  upon  a  further  discussion  of  the 


96  EAST  LYNNE 

subject,  and  you  must  pardon  my  saying  so.  Let 
us  return  to  the  topic  of  the  servants.  Where  are 
they?" 

"I  sent  them  away  because  they  were  superfluous 
incumbrances,"  she  hastily  added,  as  he  would  have 
interrupted  her.  "We  have  four  in  the  house,  and  my 
lady  has  brought  a  fine  maid,  I  see,  making  five.  I 
have  come  up  here  to  live." 

Mr.  Carlyle  felt  checkmated.  He  had  always  bowed 
to  the  will  of  Miss  Corny,  but  he  had  an  idea  that  he 
and  his  wife  would  be  better  without  her.  "And  your 
own  house?"  he  exclaimed.  "I  have  let  it  furnished; 
the  people  entered  to-day.  You  cannot  turn  me  out 
of  East  Lynne,  into  the  road,  or  to  furnished  lodg- 
ings, Archibald.  There  will  be  enough  expense  with- 
out our  keeping  on  two  houses;  and  most  people,  in 
your  place,  would  jump  at  the  prospect  of  my  living 
here.  Your  wife  will  be  mistress;  I  do  not  intend  to 
take  her  honors  from  her ;  but  I  shall  have  a  world  of 
trouble  in  management,  and  be  as  useful  to  her  as  a 
housekeeper.  She  will  be  glad  of  that,  inexperienced 
as  she  is.  I  dare  say  she  never  gave  a  domestic  order 
in  her  life." 

This  was  a  view  of  the  case  to  Mr.  Carlyle,  so  plaus- 
ibly put,  that  he  began  to  think  it  might  be  all  for  the 
best.  He  had  great  reverence  for  his  sister's  judg- 
ment ;  force  of  habit  is  strong  upon  all  of  us.  Still — he 
did  not  know. 

"There  is  certainly  room  for  you  at  East  Lynne, 
Cornelia,  but " 

"A  little  too  much,"  put  in  Miss  Corny.  "I  think 
a  house  half  its  size  might  content  us  all,  and  still 
have  been  grand  enough  for  Lady  Isabel." 

"East  Lynne  is  mine,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"So  is  your  folly,"  rejoined  Miss  Cornelia. 

"And  with  regard  to  servants,"  proceeded  Mr.  Car- 
lyle, passing  over  the  remark,  "I  shall  certainly  keep 
as  many  as  I  deem  necessary.  I  cannot  give  my  wife 
splendor,  but  I  will  give  her  comfort.  The  horses  and 
carriacres  will  take  one  man's " 


EAox   LYNNE  97 

Miss  Corny  turned  faint  all  over.  "What  on  earth 
are  you  talking  of?" 

"I  bought  a  pretty  open  carriage  in  town,  a  pair  of 
ponies  for  it.  The  carriage  we  came  home  in  was 
Lord  Mount  Severn's  present.  Post-horses  will  do  for 
that  at  present." 

Miss  Corny  threw  up  her  hands  and  eyes.  At  that 
moment  Peter  entered  with  some  hot  water  which  his 
master  had  rung  for.  Mr.  Carlyle  rose,  and  looked  on 
the  sideboard.  "Where's  the  wine,  Peter?"  The 
servant  put  it  out,  port  and  sherry.  Mr.  Carlyle  drank 
a  glass,  and  then  proceeded  to  mix  some  wine  and 
water.  "Shall  I  mix  some  for  you,  Cornelia?"  he 
asked. 

"I'll  mix  for  myself  if  I  want  any.   Who  is  that  for?" 

"Isabel." 

He  quitted  the  room,  carrying  the  wine  and  water, 
and  entered  his  wife's.  She  was  sitting  half  buried  it 
seemed  in  the  armchair,  her  face  muffled  up.  As  she 
raised  it  he  saw  that  it  was  flushed  and  agitated,  that 
her  eyes  were  bright  and  her  frame  was  trembling. 
"What  is  the  matter?"  he  hastily  asked. 

"I  got  nervous  after  Marvel  went,"  she  whispered, 
laying  hold  of  him,  as  if  for  protection  from  terror. 
"1  could  not  find  the  bell,  and  that  made  me  v/orse;  so 
I  came  back  to  the  chair  and  covered  my  head  over, 
hoping  somebody  would  come  up." 

"I  have  been  talking  to  Cornelia.  But  what  made 
you  nervous?" 

"Oh,  1  was  very  foolish.  I  kept  thinking  of  fright- 
ful things;  they  would  come  into  my  mind.  Do  not 
blame  me,  Archibald.   This  is  the  room  papa  died  in." 

"Blame  you,  my  darling!"  he  muttered,  with  deep 
feeling. 

"I  thought  of  a  dreadful  story  about  the  bats,  that 
the  servants  told — I  dare  say  you  never  heard  it;  and 
I  kept  thinking,  'Suppose  they  were  at  the  windows 
now,  behind  the  blinds?'  and  then  I  was  afraid  to  look 

at  the  bed;  I  fancied  1  might  see You  are  laugh- 

ine!' 


7  Lynn* 


98  EAST  LYNNE 

Yes,  he  was  smiling,  for  he  knew  that  these 
moments  of  nervous  fear  are  best  met  jestingly.  He 
made  her  drink  the  wine  and  water,  and  then  he 
showed  her  where  the  bell  was,  ringing  it  as  he  did 
so.  Its  position  had  been  moved  in  some  late  altera- 
tions to  the  house. 

"Your  rooms  shall   be  changed  to-morrow,  Isabel." 

"No,  let  us  remain  in  these.  I  shall  like  to  feel  that 
papa  was  once  their  occupant.  I  won't  get  nervous 
again." 

But,  even  as  she  spoke,  her  actions  belied  her  words. 
Mr.  Carlyle  had  gone  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  and 
she  flew  close  up  to  him,  cowering  behind  him. 

"Shall  you  be  very  long,  Archibald?"  she  whispered. 

"Not  more  than  an  hour, "  he  answered.  But  he 
hastily  put  back  one  of  his  hands,  and  held  her  tightly 
in  his  protecting  grasp;  Marvel  was  coming  along  the 
corridor  in  answer  to  the  bell.  "Have  the  goodness 
to  let  Miss  Carlyle  know  that  I  am  not  coming  down 
again  to-night,"  he  said. 

"Yes",  sir." 

Mr.  Carlyle  shut  the  door,  and  then  looked  at  his 
wife  and  laughed.  "He  is  very  kind  to  me,"  thought 
Isabel. 

With  the  morning  began  the  perplexities  of  Lady 
Isabel  Carlyle.  But  first  of  all,  just  fancy  the  group 
at  breakfast.  Miss  Carlyle  descended  in  the  startling 
costume  the  reader  has  seen,  took  her  seat  at  the 
breakfast  table,  and  there  sat  bolt  upright.  Mr.  Car- 
lyle came  down  next;  and  then  Lady  Isabel  entered, 
in  an  elegant  half-mourning  dress  with  flowing  black 
ribbons. 

"Good-morning,  ma'am.  I  hope  you  slept  well?" 
was  Miss  Carlyle's  salutation.  "Quite  well,  thank 
you,"  she  answered,  as  she  took  her  seat  opposite  Miss 
Carlyle.  Miss  Carlyle  pointed  to  the  top  of  the  table. 
"That  is  your  place,  ma'am.  But  I  will  pour  out  the 
coffee,  and  save  you  the  trouble,  if  you  wish  it." 

"I  should  be  glad  if  you  would,"  answered  Lady 
Isabel. 


EAST  LYNNE  99 

After  breakfast  Lady  Isabel  accompanied  Mr.  Car- 
l3^ie  through  the  park.  He  thought  it  a  good  opportu- 
nity to  speak  about  his  sister.  "She  wishes  to  remain 
with  us,"  he  said.  "I  do  not  know  what  to  decide. 
On  the  one  hand,  I  think  she  might  save  you  the 
worry  of  household  management,  on  the  other,  I  fancy 
we  shall  be  happier  by  ourselves." 

Isabel's  heart  sank  within  her  at  the  idea  of  that 
stern  Miss  Corny  mounted  over  her  as  a  resident  guard ; 
but,  refined  and  sensitive,  almost  painfully  considerate 
of  the  feelings  of  others,  she  raised  no  word  of  objec- 
tion.    As  he  and  Miss  Carlyle  pleased,  she  answered. 

"Isabel,"  he  said,  with  grave  earnestness,  "I  wish  it 
to  be  as  you  please;  that  is,  I  wish  matters  to  be 
arranged  as  may  best  please  you;  and  I  will  have  them 
so  arranged.  My  chief  object  in  life  now  is  your  hap- 
piness." 

He  spoke  in  all  the  sincerity  of  truth,  and  Isabel 
knew  it ;  and  the  thought  came  across  her  that  with 
him  by  her  side,  her  loving  protector.  Miss  Carlyle 
could  not  mar  her  life's  peace,  "Let  her  stay,  Archi- 
bald; she  will  not  incommode  us." 

"At  any  rate,  it  can  be  tried  for  a  month  or  two, 
and  we  shall  see  how  it  works,"  he  musingly  observed. 

They  reached  the  park  gates.  "I  wish  I  could  go 
with  you  and  be  your  clerk,"  she  cried,  unwilling  to 
release  his  hand.  "I  should  not  have  all  that  long 
way  to  go  back  by  myself."  He  laughed  and  shook 
his  head,  telling  her  that  she  wanted  to  bribe  him  into 
taking  her  back,  but  it  could  not  be.  And  away  he 
went  after  saying  farewell. 

Isabel  wandered  back,  and  then  wandered  through 
the  rooms.  They  looked  lonely,  not  as  they  had 
seemed  to  look  in  her  father's  time.  In  her  dressing- 
room  knelt  Marvel,  unpacking.  She  rose  when  Isabel 
entered. 

"Can  I  speak  to  you  a  moment,  if  you  please,  my 
lady?" 

"What  is  it?" 

Then  Marvel  poured  forth  her  tale— that  she  feared 


100  EAST  LYNNE 

so  small  an  establishment  would  not  suit  her,  and  if 
my  lady  pleased  she  would  like  to  leave  at  once,  that 
day.   Anticipating  it,  she  had  not  unpacked  her  things, 

''There  has  been  some  mistake  about  the  servants, 
Marvel,  but  it  will  be  remedied  as  soon  as  possible. 
And  I  told  you,  before  I  married,  that  Mr.  Carlyle's 
establishment  would  be  a  limited  one." 

''My  lady,  perhaps  I  could  put  up  with  that;  but  I 
never  could  stop  in  the  house  v/ith"— that  female 
Guy,  had  been  on  the  tip  of  Marvel's  tongue ;  but  she 
rem.embered  in  time  of  v\rhom  she  was  speaking — "with 
Miss  Carlyle.  I  fear,  my  lady,  we  have  both  got 
tempers  that  would  clash,  and  mJght  be  flying  at  each 
other;  I  could  not  stop,  my  lady,  for  untold  gold. 
And  if  you  please  to  make  me  forfeit  my  running 
quarter's  salary,  why,  I  must  do  it.  So  when  I  have 
set  your  ladyship's  things  to  rights  I  hope  you'll  allow 
me  to  go." 

Lady  Isabel  would  not  condescend  to  ask  her  to 
remain,  but  she  wondered  how  she  should  manage 
without  a  maid.  She  drew  her  desk  toward  her. 
"What  is  the  amount  due  to  you?"  she  inquired,  as 
she  unlocked  it. 

"Up  to  the  end  of  the  quarter,  my  lady?"  cried 
Marvel,  in  a  brisk  tone. 

"No,"  coldly  replied  Lady  Isabel.    "Up  to  to-day." 

"I  have  not  had  time  to  reckon,  my  lady." 

Lady  Isabel  took  a  pencil  and  paper,  made  out  the 
account,  and  laid  it  down  in  gold  and  silver  on  the 
table.  "It  is  more  than  you  deserve,  Marvel,"  she 
remarked,  "and  more  than  you  would  get  in  most 
places.      You  ought  to  have  given  me  proper  notice. " 

So  Marvel  left.  And  when  Lady  Isabel  went  to  her 
room  to  dress  for  dinner,  Joyce  entered  it.  "1  am  not 
much  accustomed  to  a  lady's  maid's  duties,"  said  she. 
"but  Miss  Carlyle  has  sent  me,  my  lady,  to  do  what  I 
can  for  you,  if  you  will  allow  me." 

Joyce  did  her  best,  and  Lady  Isabel  v/ent  dow^n.  It 
was  nearly  six  o'clock,  the  dinner  hour,  and  she 
strolled  to  the  park  gates,  hoping  to  meet  Mr.  Car- 


EAST  LYNNE  101 

lyle.  Taking  a  few  steps  out,  she  looked  down  the 
road,  but  could  not  see  him  coming;  so  she  turned  in 
again,  and  sat  down  under  a  shady  tree  and  out  of 
view  of  the  road.  It  was  remarkably  warm  weather 
for  the  closing  days  of  May. 

Half  an  hour,  and  then  Mr.  Carlyle  came  pelting  up, 
passed  the  gate,  and  turned  on  to  the  grass.  There 
was  his  wife.  She  had  fallen  asleep,  her  head  leaning 
against  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  Her  bonnet  and  parasol 
lay  at  her  feet,  her  scarf  had  dropped,  and  she  looked 
like  a  lovely  child,  her  lips  partly  open,  her  cheeks 
flushed,  and  her  beautiful  hair  falling  around.  It  was 
an  exquisite  picture,  and  his  heart  beat  quicker  within 
him  as  he  felt  it  was  his  own.  A  smile  stole  over  his 
lips  as  he  stood  looking  at  her.  She  opened  her  eyes, 
and  for  a  moment  could  not  remember  where  she  was. 
Then  she  started  up. 

'*Oh,  Archibald!     Have  1  been  asleep?" 

"Aye;  and  might  have  been  stolen  and  carried  off. 
I  could  not  afford  that,  Isabel." 

"1  don't  know  how  I  came  to  fall  asleep.  I  was 
listening  for  you." 

"What  have  you  been  doing  all  day?"  he  asked,  as 
he  drew  her  arm  within  his,  and  they  walked  on. 

"Oh,  I  hardly  know,"  she  sighed.  "Trying  the 
new  piano,  and  looking  at  my  watch,  wishing  the  time 
would  go  quicker,  that  you  might  come  home.  The 
ponies  and  carriage  have  arrived,  Archibald." 

"I  know  they  have,  my  dear.  Have  you  been  out 
of  doors  much?" 

"No,  1  waited  for  you."  And  then  she  told  him 
about  Marvel.  He  felt  vexed,  saying  she  must 
replace  her  with  all  speed.  Isabel  said  she  knew  of 
one — a  young  woman  who  had  left  Lady  Mount  Severn 
while  she,  Isabel,  was  at  Castle  Marling;  her  health 
was  delicate,  and  Lady  Mount  Severn's  place  too  hard 
for  her. 

"Write  to  her,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"You  have  kept  dinner  waiting  more  than  half  an 
hour,"  began  Miss  Corny,  in  a  loud  tone  qf  complaint. 


102  EAST  LYNNE 

to  her  brother,  meeting  them  in  the  hall.  "And  I 
thought  you  must  be  lost,  ma'am,"  she  added,  to 
Isabel. 

Why  in  the  world  did  she  tack  on  that  objectionable 
"ma'am"  to  every  sentence?  It  was  out  of  place  in 
all  respects  to  Isabel,  more  especially  considering  her 
own  age  and  Isabel's  youth.  Mr.  Carlyle  knitted  his 
brows  whenever  it  came  out,  and  Joyce  felt  sure  that 
Miss  Corny  did  it  "in  her  temper."  He  hastily 
answered  her  that  he  could  not  get  away  from  the 
office  earlier,  and  went  up  to  his  dressing-room.  Isabel 
hurried  after  him,  probably  dreading  some  outbreak  of 
Miss  Carlyle's  displeasure;  but  the  door  was  shut, 
and,  scarcely  at  home  yet  as  a  wife,  she  did  not  like  to 
open  it.  When  he  appeared,  there  she  was,  leaning 
against  the  door-post. 

"Isabel!  are  you  there?" 

"I  am  waiting  for  you.     Are  you  ready?" 

"Nearly."  He  drew  her  inside,  and  held  her  against 
his  heart. 

Once  more,  as  in  the  year  gone  by,  St.  Jude's  Church 
was  in  a  flutter  of  expectation.  It  expected  to  see  a 
whole  paraphernalia  of  bridal  finery,  and  again  it  was 
doomed  to  disappointment,  for  Isabel  had  not  put  off 
her  mourning  for  her  father.  She  was  in  black,  a  thin 
gauze  dress,  and  her  white  bonnet  had  small  black 
flowers  inside  and  out.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
Mr.  Carlyle  took  possession  of  the  pew  belonging  to 
East  Lynne,  filling  the  place  where  the  poor  earl  used 
to  sit.     Not  so  Miss  Corny.     She  sat  in  her  own. 

Barbara  was  there  with  the  Justice  and  Mrs.  Hare. 
Her  face  wore  a  gray,  dusky  hue,  of  which  she  was 
only  too  conscious,  but  could  not  subdue.  Her  covet- 
ous eyes  would  wander  to  that  other  face  with  its 
singular  loveliness  and  its  sweetly  earnest  eyes, 
sheltered  under  the  protection  of  him  for  whose 
sheltering  protection  she  had  so  long  yearned.  Poor 
Barbara  did  not  benefit  much  by  the  services  that  day. 

Afterward  they  went  across  the  churchyard  to  the 


EAST  LYxNNE  lOS 

west  corner,  where  stood  the  tomb  of  Lord  Mount 
Severn.  Isabel  looked  at  the  inscription,  her  veil 
shading  her  face. 

"Not  here,  and  now,  my  darling,"  he  whispered, 
pressing  her  arm  to  his  side,  for  he  felt  her  silent  sobs. 
"Strive  for  calmness." 

"It  seems  but  the  other  day  he  was  at  church  with 
me,  and  now — here!" 

Mr.  Carlyle  suddenly  changed  their  places,  so  that 
they  stood  with  their  backs  to  the  hedge,  and  to  any 
staring  stragglers  who  might  be  lingering  in  the  road. 

"There  ought  to  be  railings  around  the  tomb,"  she 
presently  said,  after  a  successful  battle  with  her  emo- 
tion. 

"I  thought  so,  and  I  suggested  it  to  Lord  Mount 
Severn,  but  he  appeared  to  think  differently.  I  will 
have  it  done." 

"I  put  you  to  great  expense,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Carlyle  glanced  quickly  at  her,  a  dim  fear  pen- 
etrating his  mind  that  his  sister  might  have  been  talk- 
ing in  her  hearing.  "An  expense  I  would  not  be 
without  for  the  whole  world.     You  know  it,  Isabel." 

"And  I  have  nothing  to  repay  you  with,"  she  sighed. 

He  looked  excessively  amused;  and,  gazing  into  her 
face,  the  expression  of  his  eyes  made  her  smile. 
"Here  is  John  with  the  carriage,"  she  exclaimed. 
"Let  us  go,  Archibald." 

Standing  outside  the  gates,  talking  to  the  rector's 
family,  were  several  ladies,  one  of  them  Barbara  Hare. 
She  watched  Mr.  Carlyle  place  his  wife  in  the  carriage, 
she  watched  him  drive  away.  Barbara's  very  lips  were 
white  as  she  bowed  in  return  to  his  greeting.  "The 
heat  is  so  great,"  murmured  Barbara,  when  those 
around  noticed  her  paleness. 

"Ah!  you  ought  to  have  gone  home  in  the  phaeton 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hare,  as  they  desired  j^ou. " 

"I  wished  to  walk,"  returned  the  unhappy  Barbara,, 

"What  a  pretty  girl!"  said  Lady  Isabel  to  her  hus- 
band.    "What  is  her  name?" 

"Barbara  Hare." 


104  EAST  LYNNE 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BARBARA   HARE's   REVELATION 

The  county  carriages  began  to  arrive  at  East  Lynne 
to  pay  the  wedding  visit  to  Mr.  and  Lady  Isabel  Car- 
lyle.  Some  appeared  with  all  the  pomp  of  coronets 
and  hammercloths,  and  bedizened  footmen  with  calves 
and  wigs  and  gold-headed  canes;  some  came  with  four 
horses,  and  some  even  with  outriders.  It  is  the  custom 
still  in  certain  localities  to  be  preceded  by  outriders 
when  paying  visits  of  ceremony,  and  there  are  people 
who  like  the  dash.  Mr.  Carlyle  might  have  taken  up 
his  abode  at  East  Lynne  without  any  such  honors 
being  paid  him,  but  his  marriage  with  Lady  Isabel  had 
sent  him  up  in  county  estimation.  Among  the  rest 
went  Justice  and  Mrs.  Hare  and  Barbara.  The  old- 
fashioned  large  yellow  chariot  was  brought  out,  and 
the  fat,  sleek,  long-tailed  coach  horses;  only  on  state 
occasions  was  that  chariot  awakened  out  of  its  repose. 

Isabel  happened  to  be  in  her  dressing-room  talking 
to  Joyce.  She  had  grown  to  like  Joyce  very  much, 
and  was  asking  her  whether  she  would  continue  to  wait 
upon  her,  as  the  maid  for  whom  she  had  written  was 
not  well  enough  to  come. 

Joyce's  face  lighted  up  with  pleasure  at  the  proposal. 
"Oh,  my  lady,  you  are  very  kind!  I  should  so  like  it. 
I  would  serve  you  faithfully  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  " 
Just  then  a  knock  came  to  the  dressing-room  door. 
Joyce  went  to  open  it,  and  saw  one  of  the  housemaids 
recently  engaged,  a  native  of  West  Lynne.  Isabel 
heard  the  colloquy: 

"Is  my  lady  there?" 

"Yes." 

"Some  visitors.  Peter  ordered  me  to  come  and  tell 
you.  I  say,  Joyce,  it's  the  Hares.  And  she's  with 
them.     Her  bonnet's  got   blue  convolvulums  inside, 


EAST  LYNNE  105 

and  a  white  feather  on  the  out,  as  long  as  Martha's 
back 'us  hearth- broom.  I  watched  her  get  out  of  the 
carriage. ' ' 

"Who?" 

"Why,  Miss  Barbara.  Only  fancy  her  coming  to  pay 
the  wedding  visit  here !  My  lady  had  better  take  care 
that  she  don't  get  a  bowl  of  poison  mixed  for  her. 
Master's  out,  or  else  I'd  have  given  a  shilling  to  see 
the  interview  between  the  three." 

Joyce  sent  the  girl  away,  shut  the  door,  and  turned 
to  her  mistress,  quite  unconscious  that  the  half- whis- 
pered conversation  had  been  audible.  "Some  visitors 
in  the  drawing-room,  my  lady,  Susan  says — Mr.  Jus- 
tice Hare,  and  Mrs.  Hare,  and  Miss  Barbara." 

Isabel  descended,  her  mind  full  of  the  mysterious 
words  spoken  by  Susan.  The  iustice  was  in  a  new 
flaxen  wig,  obstinate-looking  and  pompous;  Mrs.  Hare, 
pale,  delicate  and  ladylike;  Barbara,  beautiful — such 
was  the  impression  they  made  upon  Isabel. 

They  paid  rather  a  long  visit.  Isabel  quite  fell  in 
love  with  the  gentle  and  suffering  Mrs.  Hare,  who  had 
risen  to  leave  when  Miss  Carlyle  entered.  Miss  Car- 
lyle  wished  them  to  remain  longer — had  something, 
she  said,  to  show  Barbara.  The  justice  declined;  he 
had  a  brother  justice  coming  to  dine  with  him  at  five; 
it  was  then  half-past  four.  Barbara  might  stay  if  she 
liked. 

Barbara's  face  turned  crimson;  but,  nevertheless, 
she  accepted  the  invitation  proffered  her  by  Miss  Carlyle 
to  remain  at  East  Lynne  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Dinner-time  approached,  and  Isabel  went  up  to 
dress  for  it.  Joyce  was  waiting,  and  entered  upon  the 
subject  of  the  service, 

"My  lady,  I  have  spoken  to  Miss  Carlyle,  and  she 
is  willing  that  I  should  be  transferred  to  you;  but  she 
says  I  ought  first  of  all  to  acquaint  you  with  certain 
unpleasant  facts  in  my  history  and  the  same  thought 
had  occurred  to  me.  Miss  Carlyle  is  not  over-pleasant 
in  manner,  my  lady,  but  she  is  very  upright  and  just.  " 

"What  facts?"asked  Lady  Isabel, sitting  down  to  have 


106  EAST  LYNNE 

her  hair  brushed.  "My  lady,  I'll  tell  j^ou  as  shortly  as 
I  can.  My  father  was  a  clerk  in  Mr.  Carlyle's  office — 
of  course,  I  mean  the  late  Mr.  Carlyle.  My  mother 
died  when  I  was  eight  years  old,  and  my  father  after- 
ward married  again — a  sister  of  Mr.  Kane's  wife " 

"Mr.  Kane,  the  music  master?" 

"Yes,  my  lady.  She  v^^as  a  governess;  she  and  Mrs. 
Kane  had  both  been  governesses;  they  were  quite 
ladies,  so  far  as  education  and  manners  went,  and 
West  Lynne  said  that  in  stooping  to  marry  my  father 
she  lowered  herself  dreadfully.  But  he  was  a  very 
handsome  man,  and  a  clever  man  also,  though  self- 
taught.  Well,  they  married,  and  at  the  end  of  a  year 
Afy  was  born " 

*'Who?"  interrupted  Lady  Isabel. 

"My  half-sister,  Afy.  In  another  year  her  mother 
died,  and  an  aunt  of  her  mother  sent  for  the  child,  and 
said  she  would  bring  her  up.  I  remained  at  home 
with  my  father,  going  to  school  by  day,  and  when  I 
grew  up  I  went  by  day  to  learn  milliner}^  and  dress- 
making. We  lived  in  the  prettiest  cottage,  my  lady! 
— it  was  in  the  wood,  and  it  was  my  father's  own. 
After  I  was  out  of  my  time  I  used  to  go  around  to 
different  ladies'  houses  to  work,  seeing  to  my  father's 
comforts  night  and  morning,  for  the  woman  who  did 
the  housework  only  came  in  for  a  few  hours  in  the  day. 
That  went  on  for  years,  and  then  Afy  came  home. 
Her  aunt  had  died,  and  her  money  died  with  her,  so 
that,  though  she  had  brought  up  Afy  well,  she  could 
leave  her  nothing.  Afy  quite  frightened  us.  Her 
notions  were  fine,  and  her  dress  was  fine ;  she  was  gay 
and  giddy  and  very  pretty,  and  would  do  nothing  all 
day  but  read  books,  which  she  use  to  get  at  the  West 
Lynne  library.  My  father  did  not  like  it;  we  were 
only  plain  working  people,  and  she  wanted  to  set  up 
for  a  lady — the  effect  of  bringing  her  up  above  her 
station.  The  next  thing  she  got  acquainted  with 
young  Richard  Hare." 

Lady  Isabel  looked  up  quickly. 

"Mr.  Justice  Hare's  only  son — own  brother  to  Miss 


EAST  LYNNE  107 

Barbara,"  proceeded  Joyce,  dropping  her  voice,  as 
though  Barbara  could  hear  her  in  the  drawing-room. 
*'Oh,  she  was  very  flighty!  She  encouraged  Mr.  Rich- 
ard, and  he  soon  grew  to  love  her  with  quite  a  wild 
sort  of  love;  he  was  rather  simple,  and  Afy  used  to 
laugh  at  him  behind  his  back.  She  encouraged  others, 
too,  and  would  have  them  there  in  an  evening,  when 
the  house  was  free.  My  father  was  secretary  to  the 
literary  institution,  and  had  to  be  there  two  evenings 
in  the  week,  after  office  hours  at  Mr.  Carlyle's.  He 
was  fond  of  shooting,  too,  and,  if  home  in  time,  would 
go  out  with  his  gun;  and  as  I  scarcely  ever  got  home 
before  nine  o'clock,  Afy  was  often  alone,  and  she  took 
the  opportunity  to  have  one  or  other  of  her  admirers 
there. ' ' 

"Had  she  many  admirers?"  asked  Lady  Isabel,  who 
seemed  inclined  to  treat  the  tale  in  a  joking  spirit. 

"The  chief  one,  my  lady,  was  Richard  Hare.  She 
got  acquainted  with  somebody  else — a  stranger — who 
used  to  ride  over  from  a  distance  to  see  her,  but  I 
fancy  there  was  nothing  in  it.  Mr.  Richard  was  the 
one.  And  it  went  on  and  on,  till — till — he  killed  her 
father." 

"Who?"  uttered  the  startled  Lady  Isabel. 

"Richard  Hare,  my  lady.  My  father  had  told  Afy 
that  Mr.  Richard  should  not  come  here  any  longer,  for 
when  gentlemen  go  in  secret  after  poor  girls  it  is  well 
known  that  they  have  not  marriage  in  their  thoughts; 
my  father  would  have  interfered  more  than  he  did, 
but  that  he  judged  well  of  Mr.  Richard,  and  did  not 
think  he  was  one  to  do  Afy  real  harm — but  he  did  not 
think  how  flighty  she  was.  However,  one  day  he 
heard  people  talking  about  it  in  West  Lynne,  coupling 
her  name  and  Mr.  Richard's  offensively  together;  and 
at  night  he  told  Afy,  before  me,  that  it  should  not  go 
on  any  longer,  and  she  must  not  encourage  him.  My 
lady,  the  next  night  Richard  Hare  shot  my  father." 

"How  very  dreadful!" 

"Whether  it  was  done  on  purpose,  or  whether  the 
gun  went  off  in  a  scuffle,  I  can't  tell;   people  think  it 


108  EAST  LYNNE 

was  wilful  murder.  I  never  shall  forget  the  scene, 
my  lady,  when  I  got  home  that  night;  it  was  at  Justice 
Hare's  that  I  had  been  working.  My  father  was  lying 
on  the  floor,  dead,  and  the  house  was  full  of  people. 
Afy  cotild  give  no  particulars;  she  had  gone  out  to  the 
wood  path  at  the  back,  and  never  heard  or  saw  any- 
thing amiss,  but  when  she  went  in  again,  there  lay 
father.  Mr.  Locksley  was  leaning  over  him ;  he  told 
Afy  that  he  had  heard  the  shot,  and  came  up  in  time 
to  see  Richard  Hare  fling  the  gun  away,  and  fly  from 
the  house  with  his  shoes  stained  with  blood." 

"Oh,  Joyce!  I  do  not  like  to  hear  this.  What  was 
done  to  Richard  Hare?" 

"He  escaped,  my  lady.  He  went  off  that  same  night 
and  has  never  been  heard  of  since.  There's  a  judg- 
ment of  murder  out  against  him,  and  his  own  father 
would  be  the  first  to  deliver  him  up  to  justice.  It  is 
a  dreadful  thing  to  have  befallen  the  Hare  family, 
who  are  most  high  and  respectable  people;  it  is  killing 
Mrs.  Hare  by  inches.     Afy— — " 

""What  is  it — that  name,  Joyce?" 

"My  lady,  she  was  christened  by  a  very  fine  name — 
Aphrodite;  so  I  and  my  father  never  called  her  any- 
thing but  Afy.  But  I  have  got  the  worst  to  tell  you 
yet,  m,y  lady — the  worst  as  regards  her.  As  soon  as 
the  inquest  was  over  she  v/ent  off  after  Richard  Hare.  " 

Lady  Isabel  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"She  did,  indeed,  my  lady,"  returned  Joyce,  turn- 
ing away  her  moist  eyelashes  and  her  shamed  cheeks 
from  the  gaze  of  her  mistress. 

"Nothing  has  been  heard  of  either  of  them,  and  it 
is  hardly  likely  but  what  they  went  out  of  England — 
perhaps  to  Australia,  perhaps  to  America;  nobody 
knows.  What  with  the  shame  of  that,  and  the  shock 
of  my  poor  father's  murder,  I  had  an  attack  of  illness. 
It  was  a  nervous  fever,  and  it  lasted  long.  Miss  Car- 
lyle  had  me  at  her  house,  and  she  and  her  servants 
nursed  me  through  it.  She's  good  at  heart,  my  lady, 
is  Miss  Carlyle,  only  her  manners  are  against  her,  and 
she  will  think  herself  better  than  most  people.     After 


EAST  LYNNE  109 

that  illness  I  stayed  with  her  as  upper  maid,  and  never 
went  out  to  work  again. " 

**How  long  is  it  since  this  happened?" 

"It  will  be  four  years  next  September,  my  lady. 
The  cottage  has  stood  empty  ever  since,  for  nobody 
will  live  in  it ;  they  say  it  smells  of  murder.  And  I 
can't  sell  it,  because  Afy  has  a  right  in  it  as  well  as  I. 
I  go  to  it  sometimes,  and  open  the  windows  and  air  it. 
And  this  was  what  I  had  to  tell  you,  my  lady,  before 
you  decide  to  take  me  into  your  service ;  it  is  not  every 
lady  would  like  to  engage  one  whose  sister  had  turned 
out  so  badly." 

Lady  Isabel  did  not  see  that  it  ought  to  make  any 
difference.  She  said  so,  and  then  leaned  back  in  her 
chair  and  mused. 

"Which  dress,  my  lady?" 

"Joyce,  what  was  that  I  heard  you  and  Susan  gos- 
siping over  at  the  door?"  Lady  Isabel  suddenly  asked. 
"About  Miss  Hare  giving  me  a  bowl  of  poison.  You 
should  tell  Susan  not  to  whisper  so  loud."  Joyce 
smiled,  though  she  was  rather  confused.  "It  was  only 
a  bit  of  nonsense,  of  course,  my  lady.  The  fact  is,  that 
people  think  Miss  Barbara  was  much  attached  to  Mr. 
Carlyle — regularly  in  love  with  him — and  many 
thought  it  would  be  a  match.  But  I  don't  fancy  she 
would  have  been  the  one  to  make  him  happy,  with 
all  her  love." 

A  hot  flush  passed  over  the  brow  of  Lady  Isabel;  a 
sensation  very  like  jealousy  flew  to  her  heart.  No 
woman  likes  to  hear  that  another  woman  either  is  or 
has  been  attached  to  her  husband ;  a  doubt  always  arises 
whether  the  feeling  may  not   have   been  reciprocated. 

Lady  Isabel  descended.  She  wore  a  costly  black  lace 
dress,  its  low  body  and  sleeves  trimmed  with  white 
lace  as  costly,  and  ornaments  of  jet.  She  looked 
inexpressibly  beautiful,  and  Barbara  turned  from  her 
with  a  feeling  of  sickening  jealousy;  from  her  beauty, 
from  her  attire,  even  from  the  fine,  soft  handkerchief, 
which  displayed  the  badge  of  her  rank — the  coronet  of  an 
earl's  daughter.     Barbara  looked  well,  too;  she  was  in 


no  liAbl    i^^iMNll 

a  light  blue  silk  robe,  and  her  pretty  cheeks  were 
damask  with  her  mind's  excitement.  On  her  neck 
she  wore  the  gold  chain  given  to  her  by  Mr.  Carlyle — 
she  had  not  discarded  that. 

They  stood  together  at  the  window,  looking  at  Mr. 
Carlyle  as  he  came  up  the  avenue.  He  saw  them,  and 
nodded.  Lady  Isabel  watched  the  damask  cheeks  turn 
to  crimson  at  sight  of  him. 

''How  do  you  do,  Barbara?"  he  cried,  as  he  shook 
hands.  "Come  to  pay  us  a  visit  at  last?  You  have 
been  tardy  over  it.  And  how  are  you,  my  darling?"  he 
whispered,  bending  over  his  wife;  but  she  missed  his 
kiss  of  greeting.  Well,  would  she  have  had  him  give 
it  her  in  public?  No;  but  she  was  in  the  mood  to 
notice  the  omission. 

Dinner  over,  Miss  Carlyle  and  Barbara  went  out  of 
doors. 

They  came  upon  the  gardener,  and  Miss  Carlyle  got 
into  a  discussion  with  him — a  somewhat  v/arm  one. 
She  insisted  upon  having  certain  work  done  in  a  cer- 
tain way,  he  standing  to  it  that  Mr.  Carlyle  had  ordered 
it  done  in  another.  Barbara  grew  tired,  and  returned 
to  the  house. 

Isabel  and  her  husband  were  in  the  adjoining  room, 
at  the  piano,  and  Barbara  had  an  opportunity  of  hear- 
ing that  sweet  voice.  She  did  as  Miss  Carlyle  con- 
fessed to  have  done — pushed  open  the  door  between 
the  two  rooms  and  looked  in.  It  was  the  twilight 
hour,  almost  too  dusk  to  see;  but  she  could  distinguish 
Isabel  seated  at  the  piano,  and  Mr.  Carlyle  standing 
behind  her.  She  was  singing  one  of  the  ballads  from 
the  opera  of  the  "Bohemian  Girl" — "When  Other 
Lips. " 

"Why  do  you  like  the  song  so  much,  Archibald?" 
she  asked,  when  she  had  finished  it. 

"I  don't  know.  I  never  liked  it  so  much  until  I 
heard  it  from  you." 

"I  wonder  if  they  are  come  in.  Shall  we  go  into 
the  next  room?" 

"Just  this  one  first — this  translation  from  the  Ger- 


EAST  LYNNE  111 

man,  '  'Twere  vain  to  tell  thee  all  I  feel,'  There's 
real  music  in  that  song. " 

*'Yes,  there  is.  Do  you  know,  Archibald,  your  taste 
is  just  like  papa's?  He  liked  all  these  quiet,  imagina- 
tive songs,  and  so  do  you.  And  so  do  I,"  she  ^.augh- 
ingly  added,  "if  I  must  speak  the  truth.  Mrs.  Vane 
used  to  stop  her  ears  and  make  a  face  when  papa  made 
me  sing  them.  Papa  returned  the  compliment,  for  he 
would  walk  out  of  the  room  if  she  began  her  loud 
Italian  songs.  I  speak  of  the  time  when  she  was  with 
us  in  London." 

She  ceased  and  began  the  song,  singing  it  exquis- 
itely, in  a  low,  sweet,  earnest  tone,  the  chords  of  the 
accompaniment  and  its  conclusion  dying  off  gradually 
into  silence. 

"There,  Archibald!  I  am  sure  I  have  sung  you  ten 
songs  at  least, "  she  said,  leaning  her  head  back  against 
him,  and  looking  at  him  from  her  upturned  face. 
"You  ought  to  pay  me." 

He  did  pay  her,  holding  her  dear  face  to  him,  and 
taking  from  it  some  impassioned  kisses.  Barbara 
turned  to  the  window,  a  low  moan  of  pain  escaping  her 
as  she  pressed  her  forehead  on  one  of  its  panes  and 
looked  forth  at  the  dusky  night.  Isabel  came  in  on 
her  husband's  arm. 

"Are  you  here  alone.  Miss  Hare?  I  really  beg  your 
pardon.      I  supposed  you  were  with  Miss  Carlyle. " 

"Where  is  Cornelia,  Barbara?" 

"I  have  just  come  in,"  was  Barbara's  reply.  "I 
dare  say  she  is  following  me."  So  she  was,  for  she 
came  upon  them  as  they  were  speaking,  her  voice 
raised  to  tones  of  anger. 

"Archibald,  what  have  you  been  telling  Blair  about 
that  geranium  bed?  He  says  you  have  been  ordering 
him  to  make  it  oval  We  decided  that  it  should  be 
square." 

"Isabel  would  prefer  it  oval,"  was  his  reply. 

"But  it  will  be  best  square,"  repeated  Miss  Carlyle. 

"It  is  all  right,  Cornelia;  Blair  has  his  orders.  I  wish 
it  to  be  oval. '  * 


112  EAST  LYxXNE 

"He  is  a  regular  muff,  is  that  Blair,  and  as  obstinate 
as  a  mule!"  cried  Miss  Carlyle. 

"Indeed,  then,  Cornelia,  I  think  him  a  very  civil, 
good  servant." 

"Oh,  of  course!"  snapped  Miss  Carlyle.  "You 
never  can  see  faults  in  anybody.  You  always  were  a 
simpleton  in  some  things,  Archibald." 

Mr.  Carlyle  laughed  good-humoredly ;  he  was  of  an 
even,  calm  temper,  and  he  had,  all  his  life,  been  sub- 
jected to  the  left-handed  compliments  of  his  sister. 
Isabel  resented  these  speeches  in  her  heart;  she  was 
growing  more  attached  to  her  husband  day  by  day. 
"It  is  well  everybody  does  not  think  so,"  cried  he, 
with  a  glance  at  his  wife  and  Barbara,  as  they  drew 
around  the  tea-table. 

The  evening  went  on  to  ten,  and  as  the  time-piece 
struck  the  hour,  Barbara  rose  from  her  chair  in  amaze- 
ment. "I  did  not  think  it  was  so  late.  Surely  some 
one  must  have  come  for  me." 

"I  will  inquire,"  was  Lady  Isabel's  answer;  and 
Mr.  Carlyle  rang  the  bell.  No  one  had  come  for  Miss 
Hare. 

"Then  I  fear  I  must  trouble  Peter,"  cried  Barbara. 
"Mamma  may  have  gone  to  rest,  tired,  and  papa 
must  have  forgotten  me.  It  would  never  do  for  me  to 
get  locked  out,"  she  gayly  added. 

"Like  you  were  one  night  before,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle, 
significantly. 

He  alluded  to  the  night  when  Barbara  was  in  the 
grove  of  trees  with  her  unfortunate  brother,  and  Mr. 
Hare  was  on  the  point,  unconsciously,  of  locking  her 
out.  She  had  given  Mr.  Carlyle  the  history;  but  its 
recollection  now  called  up  a  smart  pain  and  a  change 
passed  over  her  face. 

"Oh,  don't,  Archibald!"  she  uttered,  in  the  impulse 
of  the  moment;  "don't  recall  it."    Isabel  wondered. 

"Can  Peter  take  me?"  continued  Barbara.  "I  had 
better  take  you,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle;   "it  is  late." 

Barbara's  heart  beat  at  the  words;  it  beat  as  she  put 
her  things  on;  as  she  said  good-night  to  Lady  Isabel 


EAST  LYNNE  113 

and  Miss  Carlyle;  it  beat  to  throbbing  as  she  went  out 
with  him  and  took  his  arm.  All  just  as  it  used  to  be — 
only  that  he  was  now  the  husband  of  another.     Only! 

It  was  a  warm,  lovely  June  night — not  moonlight, 
but  bright  with  its  summer's  twilight.  They  went 
down  the  park  into  the  road,  which  they  crossed,  and 
soon  came  to  a  stile.  From  that  stile  there  led  a  path 
through  the  fields  which  would  pass  the  back  of  Jus- 
tice Hare's.     Barbara  stopped  at  it. 

"Would  you  choose  the  field  way  to-night,  Barbara? 
The  grass  will  be  damp.   And  this  is  the  longest  way." 

"But  we  shall  escape  the  dust  of  the  road." 

"Oh,  very  well,  if  you  prefer  it.  It  will  not  make 
three  minutes'  difference." 

"He  is  very  anxious  to  get  home  to  her!"  mentally- 
exclaimed  Barbara.  "I  shall  fly  out  upon  him  pres- 
ently, or  my  heart  will  burst." 

Mr.  Carlyle  crossed  the  stile,  helped  over  Barbara, 
and  then  gave  her  his  arm  again.  He  had  taken  her 
parasol — he  had  taken  it  the  last  night  they  had  walked 
together.  An  elegant  little  parasol  this  was,  of  blue 
silk  and  white  lace,  and  he  did  not  switch  the  hedges 
with  it.  That  night  was  present  to  Barbara  now,  with 
all  its  word  and  its  delusive  hopes;  terribly  present  to 
her  was  their  bitter  ending. 

"When  does  the  justice  begin  haymaking,  Barbara?" 

There  was  no  reply;  Barbara  was  trying  to  keep 
down  her  emotions.  Mr.  Carlyle  tried  again.  "Bar- 
bara, I  asked  you  which  day  your  papa  cuts  his  hay?" 

Still  no  reply.  Barbara  was  literally  incapable  of 
making  one.  Her  throat  was  working,  the  muscles  of 
her  mouth  began  to  twitch,  and  a  convulsive  sob,  or 
what  sounded  like  it,  broke  from  her.  Mr.  Carlyle 
turned  his  head  hastily. 

"Barbara!  are  you  ill?     What  is  it?" 

On  it  came — passion,  temper,  wrongs  and  nervous- 
ness, all  boiling  over  together.  She  was  in  strong 
hysterics.  Mr.  Carlyle  half  carried,  half  dragged  her 
to  the  second  stile,  and  placed  her  against  it,  his  arm 
supporting  her;  and  an  old  cow  and  two  calves,  won- 

8  Lynne 


114  EAST  LYNNE 

dering  what  the  disturbance  could  mean  at  that  sober 
time  of  night,  walked  up  and  stared  at  them. 

"Are  you  better,  Barbara?  What  can  have  caused 
all  this?" 

"What  can  have  caused  it?"  she  burst  forth  in  pas- 
sionate uncontrol.     "You  can  ask  me  that?" 

Mr.  Carlyle  was  struck  dumb;  but  by  some  inexpli- 
cable law  of  sympathy,  a  dim  and  very  unpleasant 
consciousness  of  the  truth  began  to  steal  over  him. 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Barbara.  If  I  have 
offended  you  in  any  way  I  am  truly  sorry." 

"Truly  sorry,  no  doubt!  What  do  you  care  for  me? 
If  I  go  under  the  sod  to-morrow" — stamping  it  with 
her  foot — "youhaveyour  wife  to  care  for;  what  am  I?" 

"Hush!"  he  interposed,  glancing  around,  more 
mindful  for  her  than  she  was  for  herself. 

"Hush,  yes!  What  is  my  misery  to  you?  I  would 
rather  be  in  my  grave,  Archibald  Carlyle,  than  endure 
the  life  I  lead.  My  pain  is  greater  than  I  know  how 
to  bear." 

"I  cannot  affect  to  misunderstand  you,"  he  said, 
feeling  extremely  annoyed  and  vexed.  "But,  my  dear 
Barbara,  I  never  gave  you  cause  to  think  that  I — that 
I — cared  for  you  more  than  I  did  care." 

"Never  gave  me  cause!"  she  gasped.  "When  you 
have  been  com.ing  to  our  house  constantly,  almost  like 
my  shadow;  when  you  gave  me  this" — dashing  open 
her  mantle,  and  holding  up  the  locket  to  his  view; 
"when  you  have  been  more  intimate  with  me  than  a 
brother!" 

"Stay,  Barbara!  There  it  is — a  brother.  I  have 
been  nothing  else;  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  be  any- 
thing else,"  he  added,  in  his  straightforward  truth. 

"Ay,  as  a  brother — nothing  else '"  and  her  voice  rose 
once  more  with  her  excitem^ent;  it  seemed  that  she 
would  not  long  control  it.  "What  cared  you  for  my 
feelings?  Vv/'hat  recked  you  that  you  gained  my  love?" 

"Barbara,  hush!"  he  implored.  "Do  be  calm  and 
reasonable.  If  I  ever  gave  you  cause  to  think  I 
regarded  you  with  deeper  feeling,  I  can  only  express 


EAST  LYNNE  115 

to  you  my  deep  regret,  and  assure  you  it  was  done 
unconsciously." 

She  was  growing  calmer.  The  passion  was  fading, 
leaving  her  face  still  and  white.  She  lifted  it  toward 
Mr.  Carlyle.  "If  she  had  not  come  between  us,  should 
you  have  loved  me?" 

"I  don't  know.  How  can  1  know?  Do  I  not  say  to 
you,  Barbara,  that  I  only  thought  of  you  as  a  friend, 
as  a  sister?     I  cannot  tell  what  might  have  been." 

"1  could  bear  it  better,  but  that  it  was  known,"  she 
murmured.  '*  All  West  Lynne  had  coupled  us  together 
in  their  prying  gossip,  and  they  have  only  pity  to  cast 
to  me  now.  I  would  far  rather  you  had  killed  me, 
Archibald." 

"I  can  but  express  to  you  my  deep  regret,"  he 
repeated.  ''I  can  only  hope  you  will  soon  forget  it 
all.  Let  the  remembrance  of  this  conversation  pass 
away  with  to-night;  let  us  still  be  to  each  other  as 
friends — as  brother  and  sister.  Believe  me,"  he  con- 
cluded, in  a  deeper  tone,  **the  confession  has  not 
lessened  you  in  my  estimation." 

He  made  a  movement  as  though  he  would  get  over 
the  stile,  but  Barbara  did  not  stir;  the  tears  were 
silently  coursing  down  her  pallid  face.  At  that 
moment  there  was  an  interruption.  ''Is  that  you. 
Miss  Barbara?" 

Barbara  started  as  if  she  had  been  shot.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  stile  stood  Wilson,  their  upper  maid. 
How  long  might  she  have  been  there?  She  began  to 
explain  that  Mr.  Hare  had  sent  Jasper  out,  and  Mrs. 
Hare  thought  it  better  to  wait  no  longer  for  the  man's 
return,  so  had  dispatched  her,  Wilson, for  Miss  Barbara. 
Mr.  Carlyle  got  over  the  stile,  and  handed  over  Bar- 
bara. 

"You  need  not  come  any  further  now,"  she  said  to 
him,  in  a  low  tone. 

"1  shall  see  you  home,"  was  his  reply;  and  he  held 
out  his  arm.     Barbara  took  it. 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  Arrived  at  the  back 
gate  of  the  Grove,  which  gave  entrance  to  the  kitchen- 


115  EAST  LYNNE 

garden,  Wilson  went  forvv-ard.  Mr.  Carlyle  took  both 
Barbara's  hands  in  his. 

"Good-night,  Barbara.     God  bless  you." 

She  had  had  time  for  reflection;  and,  the  excitement 
gone,  she  saw  her  outbreak  in  all  its  shame  and  folly. 
Mr.  Carlyle  noticed  how  subdued  and  white  she 
looked.  "I  think  I  have  been  mad,"  she  groaned, 
"I  must  have  been  mad  to  say  what  I  did.  Forget 
that  it  was  uttered.  " 

"I  told  you  I  would." 

*'You  will  not  betray  me  to — to — your  wife?"  she 
panted. 

''Barbara!" 

"Thank  you.     Good-night." 

But  he  still  retained  her  hands.  "In  a  short  time, 
Barbara,  I  trust  you  will  find  one  more  worthy  to 
receive  your  love  than  I  have  been." 

"Never,"  she  impulsively  answered.  "1  do  not  love 
and  forget  so  lightly.  In  the  years  to  come,  in  my  old 
age,  I  shall  still  be  nothing  but  Barbara  Hare. " 

Mr.  Carlyle  walked  away  in  a  fit  of  musing.  The 
revelation  had  given  him  pain  (and  possibly  a  little 
flattery),  for  he  was  fond' of  pretty  Barbara.  Fond  in 
his  way,  not  in  hers — not  with  the  sort  of  fondness  he 
felt  for  his  wife.  He  asked  his  conscience  whether  his 
manner  to  her  in  the  past  days  had  been  a  tinge 
warmer  than  he  would  bestow  upon  a  sister,  and  he 
decided  that  it  might  have  been,  but  that  he  most  cer- 
tainly had  never  cast  a  suspicion  to  the  mischief  it  was 
doing. 

"I  heartily  hope  she  will  soon  find  somebody  to  her 
liking,  and  forget  me,"  was  his  concluding  thought. 
"As  to  living  and  dying  Barbara  Hare,  that  is  all 
moonshine — the  sentimental  rubbish  that  girls  like 
to " 

"Archibald!" 

He  was  passing  the  very  last  tree  in  the  park,  the 
nearest  to  his  house,  and  the  interruption  came  from 
a  dark  form  standing  under  it. 

"Is  it  vou,  mv  dearest?" 


EAST  LYNNE  117 

"1  came  out  to  meet  you.  Have  you  not  been  very 
long?" 

"I  think  I  have,"  he  answered,  as  he  drew  his  wife 
to  his  side,  and  walked  on  with  her.  "We  met  one  of 
the  servants  at  the  second  stile,  but  I  went  all  the 
way." 

"You  have  been  intimate  with  the  Hares?" 

"Quite  so.     Cornelia  is  related  to  them." 

"Do  you  think  Barbara  pretty?" 

"Very." 

"Then — intimate  as  you  were — I  wonder  you  never 
fell  in  love  with  her." 

Mr.  Carlyle  laughed — a  very  conscious  laugh,  consid- 
ering the  recent  interview. 

"Did  you,  Archibald?" 

The  words  were  spoken  in  a  low  tone,  almost,  or  he 
fancied  it,  a  tone  of  emotion,  and  he  looked  at  her  in 
amazement.     "Did  I  what,  Isabel?" 

"You  never  loved  Barbara  Hare?" 

"Loved  her!  What  is  your  head  running  on,  Isabel? 
I  never  loved  but  one  woman — and  that  one  I  made 
my  wife." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

DEATH   OR   LIFE 

Another  year  came  in.  Isabel  would  have  been 
altogether  happy  but  for  Miss  Carlyle;  that  lady  still 
afflicted  her  presence  upon  East  Lynne,  and  made  the 
bane  of  its  household.  She  deferred  outwardly  to 
Lady  Isabel  as  the  mJstress;  but  the  real  mistress  was 
herself,  Isabel  little  more  than  an  automaton.  Her 
impulses  were  checked,  her  wishes  frustrated,  her 
actions  tacitly  condemned  by  the  imperiously-willed 
Miss  Carl3^1e. 

One  day— it  was  in  the  month  of  February — after  a 
tolerably  long  explosion  of  wrath  on  Miss  Corny's 
part,  not  directed  against  Isabel,  but  at  sometning 
which  had  gone  wrong  amongst  the  servants,  silence 


118  EAST  LYNNE 

supervened.  Isabel,  who  was  sitting  listless  and  dis- 
spirited,  suddenly  broke  it,  speaking  more  to  herself 
than  to  Miss  Carlyle: 

*'I  wish  evening  was  come!" 

"Why  do  you  wish  that?" 

'* Because  Archibald  would  be  home." 

Miss  Carlyle  gave  an  unsatisfactory  grunt,  '*You 
seem  tired,  Lady  Isabel." 

*'I  am  very  tired." 

"I  don't  wonder  at  it.  I  should  be  tired  to  death  if 
I  sat  doing  nothing  all  day.  Indeed,  I  think  I  should 
soon  drop  into  my  grave  " 

"There's  nothing  to  do,"  returned  Lady  Isabel, 

"There's  always  something  to  do  when  people  like 
to  look  for  it.  You  might  help  me  with  these  napkins, 
rather  than  do  nothing." 

"I  make  napkins!"  exclaimed  Lady  Isabel. 

"You  might  do  a  worse  thing,  ma'am,"  snapped 
Miss  Corny. 

"I  don't  understand  that  sort  of  work,"  said  Isabel, 
gently. 

"Neither  does  anybody  else  till  they  try.  For  my 
part  I'd  rather  sit  down  and  make  or  mend  shoes  than 
I'd  sit  with  my  hands  before  me.      It's  a  sinful  v/aste 

of "     She  stopped  short.      "Why,  what  on  earth! 

Why,  if  I  don't  believe  here's  Archibald!  What  brings 
him  home  at  this  time  of  day?" 

"Archibald!"  Out  she  flew  in  her  glad  surprise, 
meeting  him  in  the  hall,  and  falling  upon  him  in  her 
delight.  "Ob,  Archibald!  my  darling,  it  is  as  if  the 
sun  had  shone!     What  have  you  come  home  for?" 

"To  drive  you  out,  love,"  he  whispered,  as  he  took 
her  back  with  him  and  rang  the  bell. 

"You  never  told  me  this  morning." 

"Because  I  was  not  sure  of  being  able  to  come. 
Peter,  let  the  pony-carriage  be  brought  round  without 
delay.     I  am  waiting  for  it." 

"Why,  where  are  you  going  with  the  pony-carriage?" 
exclaimed  Miss  Carlyle  as  Isabel  left  the  room  to  dress 
berself. 


EAST  LYNNE  119 

"Only  for  a  drive." 

"A  drive!"  repeated  Miss  Corny,  looking  at  him  in 
bewilderment.  "To  take  Isabel  for  one,  he  said.  I 
shall  not  trust  her  to  John  again  yet  a  while." 

"That's  the  way  to  get  on  with  your  business!" 
retorted  Miss  Corny,  when  she  could  find  temper  to 
speak,    "Deserting  the  office  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  " 

"Isabel's  health  is  of  more  consequence,  just  now, 
than  business,"  he  returned,  good-humoredly.  "And 
you  really  speak,  Cornelia,  as  if  I  had  neither  Dill  to 
replace  me,  nor  plenty  of  clerks  under  him." 

"John  is  a  better  driver  than  you  are." 

"He  is  as  good  a  one.   But  that  is  not  the  question.  " 

Isabel  came  down,  looking  radiant,  all  her  listless- 
ness  gone.  Mr.  Carlyle  placed  her  in  the  carriage,  and 
drove  away.  Miss  Corny  gazing  after  them  with  an 
expression  of  face  enough  to  turn  a  whole  dairy  of 
milk  sour. 

There  were  many  such  little  episodes  as  these,  so  you 
need  not  wonder  that  Isabel  was  not  altogether  happy. 
But  never  before  Mr.  Carlyle  was  the  lady's  temper 
vented  upon  her;  plenty  fell  to  his  own  share  when  he 
and  his  sister  were  alone ;  and  he  had  been  so  accustomed 
to  that  sort  of  thing  all  his  life,  had  got  so  used  to  it,  that 
it  made  no  impression.  He  never  dreamed  that  Isabel 
also  received  her  portion. 

It  was  hard  upon  mid-day.  A  clergyman,  Mr.  Car- 
lyle and  Miss  Carlyle  were  gathered  in  the  dressing- 
room,  around  a  table  on  which  stood  a  rich  china  bowl, 
containing  water  for  the  baptism.  Joyce,  her  pale 
face  working  with  emotion,  came  into  the  room,  carry- 
ing what  looked  like  a  bundle  of  flannel.  Little  cared 
Mr.  Carlyle  for  that  bundle,  in  comparison  with  his 
care  for  his  wife. 

"Joyce,"  he  whispered,  "is  all  well  still?" 

"I  believe  so,  sir." 

The  service  commenced.  The  clergyman  took  the 
child.  "What  name?"  he  asked.  "Isabel  Lucy," 
said    Mr.    Carlyle.      Upon    which    a    strange  sort  of 


120  EAST  LYNNE 

resentful  sniff  was  heard  from  Miss  Corny.  She  had 
probably  thought  to  hear  him  mention  her  own,  but 
he  had  named  it  after  his  wife  and  his  mother. 

Mr.  Carlyle  was  not  allowed  to  see  his  wife  until 
the  evening.  His  eyelashes  glistened  as  he  looked 
down  at  her.  She  detected  his  emotion,  and  a  faint 
smile  parted  her  lips. 

*'I  never  knew  what  thankfulness  was  until  this 
day!"  he  murmured. 

"That  the  baby  is  safe?" 

*'That  you  are  safe,  my  darling — safe  and  spared  to 
me,  Isabel,"  he  whispered,  hiding  his  face  upon  hers, 
*'I  never  until  to-day  knew  what  prayer  was — the 
prayer  of  a  heart  in  its  sore  need." 

"Have  you  written  to  Lord  Mount  Severn?"  she 
asked,  after  a  while. 

"This  afternoon,"  he  replied. 

"Why  did  you  give  baby  my  name — Isabel?" 

"Do  you  think  I  could  have  given  it  a  prettier  one? 
1  don't." 

"Why  do  you  not  bring  a  chair  and  sit  down  by  me?' ' 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "I  wish  I  might. 
But  they  limited  my  stay  with  you  to  four  minutes ; 
and  Wainwright  has  posted  himself  outside  the  door 
with  his  watch  in  his  hand. " 

Quite  true.  There  stood  the  careful  surgeon ;  and  the 
short  interview  was  over  almost  as  soon  as  it  had  begun. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
Wilson's  tongue 

The  baby  lived,  and  appeared  likely  to  live,  and  of 
course  the  next  thing  was  to  look  out  for  a  maid  for  it. 
Isabel  did  not  get  strong  very  quickly;  fever  and  weak- 
ness had  a  struggle  with  each  other  and  with  her.  One 
day  when  she  was  dressed  and  sitting  in  her  easy-chair. 
Miss  Carlyle  entered. 

"Of  all  the  servants  in  the  neighborhood,  who  should 
you  suppose  is  come  up  after  the  place  of  nurse?"  she 
said  to  Lady  Isabel. 


EAST  LYNNE  121 

"Indeed,  I  cannot  guess." 

"Why,  Wilson,  Mrs.  Hare's  maid.  Three  years  and 
five  months  she  has  been  with  them,  and  now  leaves 
in  consequence  of  a  quarrel  with  Barbara.  Will  you 
see  her?" 

"Is  she  likely  to  suit?     Is  she  a  good  servant?" 

"She's  not  a  bad  servant,  as  servants  go, "  responded 
Miss  Carlyle.  '* She's  steady  and  respectable;  but  she 
has  got  a  tongue  as  long  as  from  here  to  Lynne- 
borough. ' ' 

"That  won't  hurt  the  baby,"  said  Lady  Isabel. 
"But  if  she  has  lived  as  lady's  maid,  she  probably  does 
not  understand  the  care  of  infants." 

"Yes,  she  does.  She  was  upper  nurse  at  Squire 
"Pinner's  before  going  to  Mrs.  Hare.  She  lived  there 
five  years." 

Wilson  was  ultimately  engaged,  and  entered  upon 
her  new  service  the  following  morning. 

In  the  afternoon  succeeding  to  it,  Isabel  was  lying 
on  the  sofa  in  her  bedroom,  asleep  as  was  supposed. 
In  point  of  fact,  she  was  in  that  state,  half  asleep,  half 
wakeful  delirium,  which  those  who  suffer  from  weak- 
ness and  fever  know  only  too  well.  Suddenly  she  was 
aroused  from  it  by  hearing  her  own  name  mentioned 
in  the  adjoining  room,  where  sat  Joyce  and  Wilson, 
the  latter  holding  the  sleeping  infant  on  her  knee,  the 
former  sewing,  the  door  between  the  rooms  being  ajar. 

"How  ill  she  looks!"  observed  Wilson. 

"Who?"  asked  Joyce. 

"Her  ladyship.  She  looks  as  if  she'd  never  get 
over  it." 

' '  She  is  getting  over  it  quickly  now, ' '  returned  Joyce. 
"If  you  had  seen  her  a  week  ago  you  would  not  say 
she  was  looking  ill  now,  speaking  in  comparison." 

"My  goodness!  would  not  somebody's  hopes  be  up 
again  if  anything  should  happen?" 

"Nonsense!"  crossly  returned  Joyce. 

"You  may  cry  out  'nonsense'  forever,  Joyce;  but 
they  would,"  went  on  Wilson.  "And  she  would  snap 
him  up,  to  a  dead  certainty;  she'd  never  let  him  escape 


122  EAST  LYNNE 

her  a  second  time.  She  is  as  much  in  love  with  him 
as  she  ever  was." 

"It  was  all  talk  and  fancy,"  said  Joyce.  "West 
Lynne  must  be  busy.  Mr.  Carlyle  never  cared  for 
her. ' ' 

"That's  more  than  you  know.  I  have  seen  a  little, 
Joyce — I  have  seen  him  kiss  her." 

"A  pack  of  rubbish!"  remarked  Joyce.  "That  tells 
nothing." 

"I  don't  say  it  does.  He  gave  her  that  locket  and 
chain  she  wears. ' ' 

"Who  wears?"  retorted  Joyce,  determined  not  gra- 
ciously to  countenance  the  subject.  "I  don't  want  to 
hear  anything  about  it." 

"  'Who,'  now?  Why,  Miss  Barbara.  She  has  hardly 
had  it  off  her  neck  since;  my  beilef  is  she  wears  it  in 
her  sleep." 

"More  simpleton  she!"  echoed  Joyce. 

"The  night  before  he  left  West  Lynne  to  marry 
Lady  Isabel — and  didn't  the  news  come  upon  us  like  a 
thunderclap ! — Miss  Barbara  had  been  at  Miss  Carlyle's, 
and  he  brought  her  home.  A  lovely  night  it  was — the 
moon  rising,  and  nearly  as  light  as  day.  He  somehow 
broke  her  parasol  in  coming  home,  and  when  they  got 
to  our  gate  there  was  a  love  scene. " 

"Were  you  a  third  in  it?"  sarcastically  demanded 
Joyce. 

"Yes — without  meaning  to  be.  That  skinflint  old 
justice  won't  allow  followers  indoors,  and  there's  no 
seeing  anybody  on  the  sly  in  that  conspicuous  back 
kitchen-garden,  where  there's  nothing  higher  than  a 
cauliflower,  so  the  only  chance  we  have  is  to  get  half 
an  hour's  chat  amidst  the  Grove  trees  in  the  front,  if 
a  friend  comes  up.  I  was  expecting  somebody  that 
evening — a  horrid,  faithless  fellow  he  turned  out,  and 
went,  three  months  after,  and  married  the  barmaid  at 
the  Buck's  Head!— and  I  was  in  the  trees  waiting  for 
him.  Up  came  Mr.  Carlyle  and  Miss  Barbara.  She 
wanted  him  to  go  in,  but  he  would  not,  and  they  stood 
there.       Something  was  said   about    the   locket,    and 


EAST  LYNNE  123 

about  his  giving  her  a  piece  of  his  hair  to  put  in  it— I 
could  not  catch  the  words  distinctly,  and  I  did  not  dare 
to  stir  nearer,  for  fear  of  their  hearing  me.  It  was  a 
regular  love  scene;  I  could  hear  enough  for  that.  If 
ever  anybody  thought  to  be  Mrs.  Carlyle,  Barbara  Hare 
did  that  night." 

"Why,  you  great  baby!  you  have  just  said  it  was  the 
night  before  he  went  to  be  married!" 

"I  don't  care — she  did.  After  he  was  gone  I  saw 
her  lift  up  her  hands  and  her  face  in  ecstasy,  and  say 
he  could  never  know  how  much  she  loved  him  until  she 
was  his  wife.  Be  you  very  sure,  Joyce,  many  a  love 
passage  has  passed  between  them  two ;  but  1  suppose 
when  my  lady  was  thrown  in  his  way  he  couldn't  resist 
her  rank  and  her  beauty,  and  the  old  love  was  cast 
over.  It  is  the  nature  of  man  to  be  fickle,  especially 
those  who  can  boast  of  their  own  good  looks,  like  Mr. 
Carlyle." 

*'Mr.  Carlyle  is  not  fickle." 

Then  Wilson  proceeded  to  describe  how  Barbara  took 
the  news  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  marriage;  and  told  of  how 
afterward  she  had  seen  him  take  Barbara  home,  and 
of  Barbara's  **sobbing  fit  to  break  her  heart"  by  the 
"^tile. 

"I  assure  you,  Joyce,"  she  added,  "in  this  past  year 
she  has  so  changed  that  she's  not  like  the  same  person. 
If  Mr.  Carlyle  should  ever  get  tired  of  my  lady, 
and " 

"Wilson!"  harshly  interrupted  Joyce.  "Have  the 
goodness  to  recollect  yourself." 

"What  have  I  said  now?  Nothing  but  the  truth. 
Men  are  shamefully  fickle ;  husbands  worse  than  sweet- 
hearts; and  I'm  sure  I'm  not  thinking  of  anything' 
wrong.  But  to  go  back  to  the  argument  that  we  began 
with — I  say  that  if  anything  happened  to  my  lady. 
Miss  Barbara,  as  sure  as  fate,  would  step  into  her 
shoes." 

Now  just  fancy  this  conversation  penetrating  to 
Lady  Isabel.  She  heard  it,  every  word.  It  is  all  very 
well   to  oppose   the  argument,   "Who  attends  to  the 


124  EAST  LYNNE 

gossip  of  servants?"  Let  me  tell  you  it  depends  upon 
what  the  subject  may  be,  whether  the  gossip  is 
attended  to  or  not.  It  might  not,  and,  indeed,  would 
not,  have  made  so  great  an  impression  upon  her  had 
she  been  in  strong  health ;  but  she  was  v/eak,  feverish, 
in  a  state  of  partial  delirium;  and  she  hastily  took  up 
the  idea  that  Archibald  Carlyle  had  never  loved  her; 
that  he  had  admired  her  and  made  her  his  wife  in  his 
ambition,  but  that  his  heart  had  been  given  Barbara 
Hare. 

A  pretty  state  of  excitement  she  worked  herself  into 
as  she  lay  there;  jealousy  and  fever — aye,  and  love, 
too — playing  pranks  with  her  brain.  It  was  near  the 
dinner  hour,  and  when  Mr.  Carl34e  entered  he  was 
startled  to  see  her;  her  pallid  cheeks  were  burning 
with  a  red  hectic,  and  her  eyes  glistened  with  fever. 

"Isabel,  you  are  worse!"  he  uttered,  approaching  her 
quickly. 

She  partially  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  clasped  hold  of 
him  in  her  emotion.  *'0h,  Archibald!  Archibald!" 
she  uttered,  "don't  marry  her!  I  could  not  rest  in  my 
grave!" 

Mr.  Carlyle,  in  his  puzzled  astonishment,  believed 
her  to  be  laboring  under  some  temporary  hallucina- 
tion, the  result  of  weakness.  He  set  himself  to  soothe 
her,  but  it  seemed  that  she  could  not  be  soothed.  She 
burst  into  a  storm  of  tears,  and  began  again — wild 
words : 

"She  would  ill-treat  my  child;  she  would  draw  your 
love  from  it,  and  from  my  memory.  Archibald,  you 
must  not  marry  her!" 

"You  must  be  speaking  from  the  influence  of  a 
dream,  Isabel,"  he  soothingly  said;  "you  have  been 
asleep,  and  are  not  yet  awake.  Be  still,  and  recollec- 
tion will  return  to  you.     There,  love;  rest  upon  me." 

"To  think  of  her  as  your  wife  brings  pain  enough  to 
kill  me,"  she  continued  to  reiterate.  "Promise  me 
that  you  will  not  marry  her — Archibald,   promise  it!" 

"I  will  promise  anything  in  reason,"  he  replied, 
bewildered  with  her  v/ords;  "but  I  do  not  know  what 


EAST  LYNNE  125 

you  mean.  There  is  no  possibility  of  my  marrying  any 
one,  Isabel;  you  are  my  wife," 

"But  if  1  die?  I  may — you  know  I  may;  and  many 
think  I  shall.     Do  not  let  her  usurp  my  place." 

*' Indeed,  she  shall  not — whoever  you  may  be  talking 
of.  What  have  you  been  dreaming?  Who  is  it  that 
is  troubling  your  mind?" 

*' Archibald,  do  you  need  to  ask?  Did  you  love  no 
one  before  you  married  me?  Perhaps  you  have  loved 
her  since — perhaps  you  love  her  still?" 

Mr.  Carlyle  began  to  discern  "method  in  her  mad- 
ness." He  changed  his  cheering  tone  to  one  of  grave 
earnestness     "Of  whom  do  you  speak,  Isabel?" 

"Of  Barbara  Hare." 

He  knitted  his  brow;  he  was  both  annoyed  and 
vexed.  Whatever  had  put  this  bygone  business  into 
his  wife's  head?  He  quitted  the  sofa,  where  he  had 
been  supporting  her,  and  stood  upright  before  her, 
calm,  dignified,  almost  solemn  in  his  seriousness. 

"Isabel,  what  notion  you  can  possibly  have  picked 
up  about  myself  and  Barbara  Hare  I  am  unable  to 
conceive.  I  never  loved  Barbara  Hare;  I  never  enter- 
tained the  faintest  shadow  of  love  for  her,  either 
before  my  marriage  or  since.  You  must  tell  me  what 
has  given  rise  to  this  idea  in  your  mind." 

"But  she  loved  you." 

A  moment's  hesitation;  for,  of  course,  Mr.  Carlyle 
was  conscious  she  had;  but,  taking  all  the  circum- 
stances into  consideration,  more  especially  how  he 
learned  the  fact,  he  could  not  in  honor  acknowledge 
it  even  to  his  wife.  "If  it  was  so,  Isabel,  she  was  more 
reprehensibly  foolish  than  I  should  have  given  Bar- 
bara's good  sense  credit  for;  a  woman  may  almost  as 
well  lose  herself  as  to  suffer  herself  to  love  unsought. 
If  she  did  give  her  love  to  me,  I  can  only  say  I  was 
entirely  unconscious  of  it.  Believe  me,  you  have  as 
much  cause  to  be  jealous  of  Cornelia  as  you  have  of 
Barbara  Hare." 

Isabel  sighed.  It  was  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  her  breath 
grew  calmer.     She  felt  inexpressibly  reassured.     Mr. 


126  EAST  LYNNE 

Carlyle  bent  his  head  and  spoke  in  a  tender,  though 
pained  tone.  "1  had  not  thought  that  the  past  year 
was  quite  thrown  away.  What  proof  can  a  man  give 
of  true  and  earnest  love  that  I  have  not  given  you?" 

She  looked  up,  her  eyelashes  wet  with  contrition, 
took  his  hand  and  held  it  between  hers.  "Don't  be 
angry  with  me,  Archibald;  the  trouble  and  the  doubt 
would  not  have  arisen  had  I  cared  for  you  less." 

He  smiled  again,  his  own  fond  smile,  and  bent 
lower.  "And  now  tell  me  what  put  this  into  your 
brain?" 

An  impulse  arose  within  her  that  she  would  tell  him 
all — the  few  words  dropped  by  Susan  and  Joyce  twelve 
months  before,  the  conversation  she  had  just  over- 
heard; but,  in  that  moment  of  renewed  confidence  it 
appeared  to  her  that  she  must  have  been  very  foolish 
to  attach  any  importance  to  it — that  a  sort  of  humilia- 
tion, in  listening  to  the  converse  of  servants,  was 
reflected  on  her;  and  she  remained  silent. 

"Has  any  one  been  striving  to  bias  your  mind  against 
me?"  he  resumed. 

"Archibald,  no!     Would  any  one  dare  to  do  it?" 

"Then  did  you  dream? — and  could  not  forget  it  on 
waking?" 

"I  do  sometimes  dream  strange  things,  especially  in 
my  feverish  afternoon  sleeps.  I  think  1  am  a  little 
delirious  at  times,  Archibald,  and  do  not  know  what  is 
real  and  what  is  fancy." 

The  answer,  while  expressing  correctly  her  physical 
state,  was  an  evasive  one,  but  not  evasively  did  it  fall 
upon  the  ear  of  Mr.  Carlyle.  It  presented  to  him  the 
only  probable  solution  of  the  enigma,  and  he  never 
questioned  it. 

"Dan't  have  any  more  of  these  dreams,  if  you  can 
help  it,"  he  said.  "Regard  them  for  what  they  are — 
illusions — neither  pleasant  for  you  nor  fair  to  me.  I 
am  bound  to  you  by  fond  ties  as  well  as  by  legal  ones, 
remember,  Isabel,  and  it  is  out  of  Barbara  Hare's 
power  to  step  between  us. " 

There  never  was  a  passion  in  this  world,  there  never 


EAST  LYNiNE  127 

will  be  one,  so  fantastic,  so  delusive,  so  powerful,  as 
jealousy.  Mr.  Carlyle  dismissed  the  episode  from  his 
thoughts;  he  believed  his  wife's  emotion  to  have  arisen 
simply  from  a  feverish  dream,  and  never  supposed  but 
that,  with  the  dream,  its  recollection  would  pass  away 
from  her. 

Not  so.  Implicitly  relying-  upon  her  husband's 
words  at  the  moment,  feeling  quite  ashamed  at  her 
own  suspicion,  Lady  Isabel  afterward  suffered  the 
unhappy  fear  to  regain  its  influence ;  the  ill-starred 
revelations  of  Wilson  reasserted  their  power,  overmas- 
tering the  denial  of  Mr.  Carlyle,  Shakespeare  callsl 
jealousy  yellow  and  green;  I  think  it  may  be  calledJ 
black  and  white,  for  it  most  assuredly  views  white  asj 
black,  and  black  as  white.  The  most  fanciful  surmises 
wear  the  aspect  of  truth,  the  greatest  improbabilities 
appear  as  consistent  realities.  Isabel  said  not  another 
word  to  her  husband;  and  the  feeling — you  will  under- 
stand this,  if  you  have  ever  been  foolish  enough  to 
sun  yourself  in  its  delights — only  caused  her  to  grow 
more  attached  to  him,  to  be  more  eager  for  his  love. 
But  certain  it  is  that  Barbara  Hare  dwelt  on  her  heartj 
like  an  incubus.  '^ 


CHAPTER  XIX 

CAPTAIN   THORN   AT  W^EST   LYNNE 

One  afternoon  found  Barbara  shopping  in  West 
Lynne.  She  had  stopped  outside  one  of  the  stores  and 
was  listlessly  gazing  down  the  street.  The  sun  was 
shining  brilliantly,  and  its  rays  fell  upon  the  large 
cable  chain  of  a  gentleman  who  was  sauntering  idly 
up  the  pavement,  making  its  gold  links  and  its  droop- 
ing seal  and  key  glitter,  as  they  crossed  his  waistcoat. 
It  shone  also  on  the  enameled  gold  studs  of  his  shirt 
front,  making  them  glitter;  and  as  he  suddenly  raised 
his  ungloved  hand,  a  white  hand,  to  stroke  his  mus- 
tache— by  which  action  you  may  know  a  vain  man — a 
diamond  ring  gleamed  with  a  light  that  was  positively 


128  EAST  LYNNE 

dazzling.  Involuntarily  Barbara  thought  of  the 
description  her  brother  Richard  had  given  of  certain 
dazzling  jewels  worn  by  another. 

She  watched  him  advance.  He  was  a  handsome 
man,  of  perhaps  seven  or  eight  and  twenty;  tall,  slen- 
der and  well  made;  his  eyes  and  hair  black.  A  very 
pleasant  expression  sat  upon  his  countenance,  and  on 
the  left  hand  he  wore  a  light  bviff  kid  glove,  and  was 
swinging  its  fellow  by  the  fingers,  apparently  in  deep 
thought,  as  he  softly  whistled  to  himself.  But  for  the 
great  light  cast  at  that  moment  by  the  sun,  Barbara 
might  not  have  noticed  the  jewelry,  or  connected  it  in 
her  mind  with  the  other  jewelry  in  that  unhappy  secret. 

"Halloa!    Thorn,  is  that  you?    Just  step  over  here!" 

The  speaker  was  Otv/ay  Bethel,  who  was  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street;  the  spoken-to,  the  gentle- 
man with  the  jewelry.  But  the  latter  was  in  a  brown 
study,  and  did  not  hear.  Bethel  called  out  again, 
louder:     "Captain  Thorn!" 

That  was  heard.  Captain  Thorn  nodded,  and  turned 
short  across  the  street.  Barbara  stood  like  one  in  a 
dream,  her  brain,  her  mind,  her  fancy  all  a  confused 
mass  together.  Just  then  she  caught  sight  of  Mr. 
Wainwright,  the  surgeon,  at  a  little  distance,  and  sped 
toward  him.  "Mr.  Wainwright,"  began  she,  forget- 
ting ceremony  in  her  agitation,  "you  see  that  gentle- 
man talking  to  Otway  Bethel.     Who  is  he?" 

Mr.  Wainwright  had  to  put  his  glasses  across  the 
bridge  of  his  nose  before  he  could  answer,  for  he  was 
short-sighted.  "That?  Oh,  it  is  Captain  Thorn.  He 
is  visiting  the  Herberts,  1  believe." 

"Where  does  he  come  from?  Where  does  he  live?" 
reiterated  Barbara,  in  her  eagerness. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  him.  I  saw  him  this 
morning  with  young  Smith  and  he  told  me  he  was  a 
friend  of  the  Herberts.  You  are  not  looking  well. 
Miss  Barbara." 

She  made  no  answer.  Captain  Thorn  and  Mr. 
Bethel  came  walking  down  the  street,  and  the  latter 
saluted  her;  but  she  was  too  much  confused  to  respond 


EAST  LYNNE  129 

to  it.  Mr.  Wainwright  then  wished  her  good-day,  and 
Barbara  walked  slowly  back. 

Barbara  was  five  minutes  alone  in  her  chamber 
before  the  dinner  was  on  the  table.  All  the  conclusion 
she  could  come  to  was  that  she  could  do  nothing  save 
tell  the  facts  to  Archibald  Carlyle. 

How  could  she  contrive  to  see  him?  The  business 
might  admit  of  no  delay.  She  supposed  she  must  go 
to  East  Lynne  that  evening;  but  where  would  be  her 
excuse  for  it  at  home?  Puzzling  over  it,  she  went 
down  to  dinner.  During  the  meal  Mrs.  Hare  began  to 
talk  of  some  silk  she  had  purchased  for  a  mantle.  She 
should  like  to  have  it  made  like  Miss  Carlyle's  new 
one.  When  Miss  Carlyle  was  at  the  Grove  the  other 
day  about  Wilson's  character,  she  had  offered  her  the 
pattern,  and  she,  Mrs.  Hare,  would  send  one  of  the 
servants  up  for  it  after  dinner. 

"Oh,  mamma,  let  me  go!"  burst  forth  Barbara. 
She  spoke  so  vehemently  that  the  justice  paused  in  his 
carving,  and  demanded  what  ailed  her.  Barbara  made 
some  timid  excuse. 

"Her  eagerness  is  natural,  Richard,"  smiled  I^lrs. 
Hare.  "Barbara  thinks  she  shall  get  a  peep  at  the 
baby,  I  expect.     All  young  folks  are  fond  of  babies." 

Barbara's  face  flushed  crimson;  but  she  did  not  con- 
tradict the  opinion.  She  could  not  eat  her  dinner ;  she 
was  too  full  of  poor  Richard;  she  played  with  it,  and 
then  sent  away  her  plate,  nearly  untouched. 

"That's  through  the  finery  she  has  been  buying, " 
pronounced  Justice  Hare.  "Her  head  is  stuffed  up 
with  it." 

No  opposition  was  offered  to  Barbara's  going  to  East 
Lynne.  She  reached  it  just  as  their  dinner  was  over. 
It  was  for  Miss  Carlyle  she  asked.  "Miss  Carlyle  is 
not  at  home,  miss.  She  is  spending  the  day  out;  and 
my  lady  does  not  receive  visitors  yet."  It  was  a  sort 
of  checkmate.  Barbara  was  compelled  to  say  she 
would  see  Mr.  Carlyle.  Peter  ushered  her  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  Mr.  Carlyle  came  to  her. 

"I   am   so   sorry   to  disturb  you;  to  have  asked  for 


130  EAST  LYNNE 

you,  "began  Barbara,  with  a  burning  face,  for  a  cer- 
tain evening  interview  of  hers  with  him,  twelve 
months  before,  was  disagreeably  presented  to  her. 
Never,  since  that  evening  of  agitation,  had  Barbara 
suffered  herself  to  betray  emotion  to  Mr.  Carlyle;  her 
manners  to  him  had  been  calm,  courteous,  and  indiffer- 
ent. And  she  now  more  frequently  called  him  "Mr. 
Carlyle"  than  "Archibald." 

"Take  a  seat,  take  a  seat,  Barbara." 

"I  asked  for  Miss  Carlyle,"  she  continued,  "for 
mamma  is  in  want  of  a  pattern  that  she  promised  to 
lend  her;  but,  in  point  of  fact,  it  was  you  I  wished  to 
see.  You  remember  the  Lieutenant  Thorn,  whom 
Richard  spoke  of  as  being  the  real  criminal?" 

"Yes." 

"I  think  he  is  at  West  Lynne. " 

Mr.  Carlyle  was  aroused  to  eager  interest.  "He! 
That  same  Thorn?" 

"It  can  be  no  other.  Mamma  and  I  were  shopping 
to-day,  and  I  went  out  for  her  bag,  which  she  had  left 
in  the  carriage.  While  Benjamin  was  getting  it,  I 
saw  a  stranger  coming  up  the  street;  a  tall,  good-look- 
ing, dark-haired  man,  with  a  conspicuous  gold  chain 
and  studs.  The  sun  was  full  upon  him,  causing  the 
ornaments  to  shine,  especially  a  diamond  ring  which 
he  wore,  for  he  had  one  hand  raised  to  his  face.  The 
thought  flashed  over  me:  'That  is  like  the  description 
Richard  gave  me  of  the  man  Thorn.'  Why  the  idea 
should  have  occurred  to  me  in  that  strange  manner,  I 
do  not  know,  but  it  most  assuredly  did  occur;  though  I 
did  not  really  suppose  him  to  be  the  same.  Just  then 
I  heard  him  spoken  to  by  some  one  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street,  it  was  Otway  Bethel,  and  he  called  him 
Captain  Thorn." 

"That  is  curious  indeed,  Barbara.  I  did  not  know 
any  stranger  was  at  West  Lynne." 

"I  saw  Mr.  Wainwright,  and  asked  him  who  it  was. 
He  said  a  Captain  Thorn,  a  friend  of  the  Herberts.  A 
Lieutenant  Thorn  four  or  five  years  ago  would  prob- 
ably be  Captain  Thorn  now." 


EAST  LYNNE  131 

Mr.  Carlyle  nodded,  and  there  was  a  pause. 

"What  can  be  done?"  asked  Barbara. 

Mr.  Carlyle  was  passing  one  hand  over  his  brow ;  it 
was  a  habit  of  his  when  deep  in  thought.  '*lt  is  hard 
to  say  what  is  to  be  done,  Barbara.  The  description 
you  give  of  this  man  certainly  tallies  with  that  given 
by  Richard.     Did  he  look  like  a  gentleman?" 

"Very  much  so.  A  remarkably  aristocratic-looking 
man,  as  it  struck  me." 

Mr.  Carlyle  again  nodded  assentingly.  He  remem- 
bered Richard's  words  when  describing  the  other — 
"and  an  out-and-out  aristocrat."  "Of  coifrse,  Barbara, 
the  first  thing  must  be  to  try  and  ascertain  whether 
it  is  the  same,"  he  observed.  "If  we  find  that  it  is, 
then  we  must  deliberate  upon  future  movements.  I 
will  see  what  I  can  ascertain  and  let  you  know." 

Barbara  rose.  Mr.  Carlyle  escorted  her  across  the 
hall,  and  then  strolled  down  the  park  by  her  side, 
deep  in  the  subject;  and  quite  unconscious  that  Lady 
Isabel's  jealous  eyes  were  watching  them  from  her 
dressing-room  window. 

"You  say  he  seemed  intimate  with  Otway  Bethel?" 

"As  to  being  intimate,  I  do  not  know.  Otway  Bethel 
spoke  as  though  he  knew  him." 

"This  must  have  caused  excitement  to  Mrs.  Hare." 

"You  forget  that  mamma  was  not  told  anything 
about  Thorn,"  was  the  answer  of  Barbara.  "The 
uncertainty  would  have  worried  her  to  death.  All 
Richard  said  to  her  was  that  he  was  innocent,  that  it 
was  a  stranger  who  did  the  deed,  and  sne  asked  for  no 
particulars;  she  has  implicit  faith  in  Richard's  truth." 

"True;  I  did  forget,"  replied  Mr.  Carlyle.  "I  wish 
we  could  find  out  some  one  who  knew  the  other  Thorn ; 
to  ascertain  that  they  were  the  same  would  be  a  great 
point  gained."  He  went  as  far  as  the  park  gates  with 
Barbara,  shook  hands,  and  wished  her  good-evening. 


132  EAST  LYNNE 


CHAPTER  XX 

PUZZLED 

Scarcely  had  she  departed,  when  Mr.  Carlyle  saw 
two  gentlemen  advancing  from  the  opposite  direction; 
in  one  of  whom  he  recognized  Tom  Herbert,  and  the 
other — instinct  told  him — was  Captain  Thorn.  He 
waited  till  they  came  up." 

*'If  this  isn't  lucky,  seeing  you!"  cried  Mr=  Tom 
Herbert,  who  was  a  free-and-easy  sort  of  gentleman, 
the  second  son  of  a  brother  justice  of  Mr.  Hare's.  "I 
wish  to  goodness  you'd  give  us  a  draught  of  your  cider, 
Carlyle.  We  went  to  Beauchamp's  for  a  stroll,  but 
found  them  all  out;  and  I'm  awfully  thirsty.  Captain 
Thorn,  Carlyle." 

Mr.  Carlyle  invited  them  to  his  house  and  ordered 
in  refreshments.  Young  Herbert  coolly  threw  himself 
into  an  arm-chair  and  lit  a  cigar,  "Come,  Thorn:'" 
cried  he,  ''here's  a  weed  for  you." 

Captain  Thorn  glanced  toward  Mr.  Carlyle.  He 
appeared  of  a  far  more  gentlemanly  nature  than  Tom 
Herbert. 

"You'll  have  one,  too,  Carlyle/  said  Herbert,  hold- 
ing out  his  cigar  case.  "Oh!  I  forgot.  You  are  a 
muff;  don't  smoke  one  twice  a  year.  I  say,  how's 
Lady  Isabel?" 

"Very  ill  still" 

"By  Jove!  is  she,  though?  Tell  her  I'm  sorry  to 
hear  it,  will  you,  Carlyle?  But— I  say!  will  she  smell 
the  smoke?"  asked  he,  with  a  mixture  of  alarm  and 
concern  in  his  faco. 

Mr.  Carlyle  reassured  him  upon  that  point,  and 
turned  to  Captain  Thorn. 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  this  neighborhood?" 

Captain  Thorn  smiled.  "I  only  reached  West 
Lynne  yesterday." 


EAST  LYNNE  133 

"You  were  never  here  before,  then?"  continued  Mr. 
Carlyle,  setting  down  the  last  as  a  probably  evasive 
answer. 

"No." 

"He  and  my  brother  Jack,  you  know,  are  in  the 
same  regiment,"  put  in  Tom  Herbert,  with  scant  cere- 
mony. "Jack  had  invited  him  down  for  some  fishing, 
and  Thorn  arrives.  But  he  never  sent  a  word  he  was 
coming.  Jack  had  given  him  up,  and  is  off  on  some 
Irish  expedition,  the  deuce  knows  where.  Precious 
unlucky  that  it  should  have  happened  so.  Thorn  says 
that  he  shall  cut  short  his  stay,  and  go  again." 

The  conversation  turned  upon  fishing,  and  in  the 
heat  of  argument  the  stranger  mentioned  a  certain 
pond,  and  its  famous  eels — "the  Low  Pond."  Mr. 
Carlyle  looked  at  him,  speaking,  however,  in  a  careless 
manner. 

"Which  do  you  mean?  We  have  two  ponds  not  far 
apart,  each  called  the  'Low  Pond.'  " 

"I  mean  the  one  on  an  estate  about  three  miles  from 
here;  'Squire  Thorpe's,  unless  I  am  mistaken." 

Mr.  Carlyle  smiled,  "I  think  you  must  have  been 
in  the  neighborhood  before,  Captain  Thorn.  'Squire 
Thorpe  is  dead,  and  the  property  has  passed  to  his 
daughter's  husband,  and  that  Low  Pond  was  filled  up 
three  years  ago. " 

"I  have  heard  a  friend  mention  it,"  was  Captain 
Thorn's  reply,  spoken  in  an  indifferent  tone,  though  he 
evidently  wished  not  to  pursue  the  subject. 

Mr.  Carlyle  by  very  easy  degrees,  turned  the  con- 
versation to  Swainson,  the  place  whence  Richard 
Hare's  Captain  Thorn  was  suspected  to  have  come. 
The  present  Captain  Thorn  said  he  knew  it  '^a  little," 
he  had  once  been  "staying  there  for  a  short  time." 
Mr.  Carlyle  became  nearly  convinced  that  Barbara's 
suspicions  were  correct.  The  descriptions  certainly 
agreed,  as  far  as  he  could  judge,  in  the  most  n  mute 
particulars.  The  man  before  him  wore  two  rings,  a 
diamond — and  a  very  beautiful  diamond,  too — on  the 
one   hand;  a  seal  ring  on  the  other;   his  hands  were 


134  EAST  LYNNE 

delicate  to  a  degree,  and  his  handkerchief,  a  cambric 
one  of  unusually  fine  texture,  was  not  entirely  guilt- 
less of  scent,  a  mark  of  dandyism  which,  in  the  other 
Captain  Thorn,  used  considerably  to  annoy  Richard. 
Mr.  Carlyle  quitted  the  room  for  a  moment,  and  sum- 
moned Joyce  to  him. 

"My  lady  has  been  asking  for  you,  sir,"  said  Joyce. 

**Tell  her  I  will  be  up  the  moment  these  gentlemen 
leave.  Joyce,"  he  added,  "find  an  excuse  to  come 
into  the  room  presently,  you  can  bring  something  or 
other  in;  I  want  you  to  look  at  this  stranger  who  is 
with  young  Mr.  Herbert.  Notice  him  well;  I  fancy 
you  may  have  seen  him  before." 

Mr.  Carlyle  returned  to  the  room,  leaving  Joyce  sur- 
prised. However,  she  presently  followed,  taking  in 
some  water,  and  lingered  a  few  minutes,  apparently 
placing  the  things  on  the  table  in  order. 

When  the  two  departed,  Mr.  Carlyle  called  Joyce, 
before  proceeding  to  his  wife's  room.  "Well?"  he 
questioned,  'did  you  recognize  him?" 

"Not  at  all,  sir„      He  seemed  quite  strange  to  me." 

"'Cast  your  thoughts  back,  Joyce.  Did  you  never 
see  him  in  years  gone  by.''" 

Joyce  looked  puzzled,  but  she  replied  in  the  negative. 

"Is  he  the  man.  thinh  you,  who  used  to  ride  over 
from  Swainson  to  see  Afy?" 

Joyce's  face  flushed  crimson.  "Oh,  sir!"  was  all  she 
uttered. 

"The  name  is  the  same — Thorn;  I  thought  it  possi- 
ble the  man  might  be,"  observed  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"Sir,  I  cannot  say.  I  never  saw  that  Captain  Thorn 
but  once,  and  I  don't  know — I  don't  know" — Joyce 
spoke  slowly  and  with  consideration — "that  I  should 
at  all  know  him  again.  1  did  not  think  of  him  when  I 
looked  at  this  gentleman ;  but,  at  any  rate,  no  appear- 
ance in  this  one  struck  upon  my  memory  as  being 
familiar." 

So,  from  Joyce,  Mr.  Carlyle  obtained  no  clew  one 
way  or  the  other.  The  follov>ring  day  he  sought  out 
Otway  Bethel.     "Are  you  intimate  with  that  Captain 


EAST  LYNNE  135 

Thorn  who  is  staying  with  the  Herberts?"  asked  he. 
"Yes,"  answered  Bethel,  derisively,  "if  passing  a 
couple  of  hours  in  his  company  can  constitute  intimacy. 
That's  all  I  have  seen  of  Thorn." 

"Are  you  sure?"  pursued  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"Sure!"  returned  Bethel;  "why,  what  are  you  driv- 
ing at  now?  I  called  in  at  Herberts'  the  night  before 
last,  and  Tom  asked  me  to  stay  the  evening.  Thorn 
had  just  come.  A  jolly  bout  we  had;  cigars  and  cold 
punch." 

"Bethel,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle,  dashing  to  the  point, 
"is  it  the  Thorn  who  used  to  go  after  Afy  Hallijohn? 
Come,  you  can  tell  if  you  like. "  Bethel  remained  dumb 
for  a  moment,  apparently  with  amazement. 

"What  a  confounded  lie!"  uttered    he   at  length. 

"Why,  it's  no  more  that  Thorn What  Thorn?" 

he  broke  off,  abruptly. 

"You  are  equivocating,  Bethel.  The  Thorn  who 
was  mixed  up — or  said  to  be — in  the  Hallijohn  affair. 
Is  this  the  same  man?" 

"You  are  a  fool,  Carlyle;  which  is  what  I  never  took 
you  to  be  yet,"  was  Mr.  Bethel's  rejoinder,  spoken  in 
a  savage  tone.  "I  have  told  you  that  I  never  knew 
there  was  any  Thorn  mixed  up  with  Afy,  and  I  should 
like  to  know  why  my  word  is  not  to  be  believed?  I 
never  saw  Thorn  in  my  life  till  I  saw  him  the  other 
night  at  the  Herberts',  and  that  I  would  take  an  oath 
to,  if  put  to  it." 

Bethel  quitted  Mr.  Carlyle  with  the  last  word,  and 
the  latter  gazed  after  him,  revolving  points  in  his 
brain.  The  mention  of  Thorn's  name  (the  one  spoken 
of  by  Richard  Hare)  appeared  to  excite  some  sore 
feeling  in  Bethel's  mind,  arousing  it  to  irritation.  Mr. 
Carlyle  remembered  that  it  had  done  so  previously, 
and  now  it  had  done  so  again;  and  yet,  Bethel  was  an 
easy-naturedman  in  general,  far  better  tempered  than 
principled.  That  there  was  something  hidden,  some 
mystery  connected  with  the  affair,  Mr.  Carlyle  felt 
sure,  but  he  could  not  attempt  so  much  as  a  guess  at 
what  it  might   be.       And  his  interview  with   Bethel 


136  EAST  LYNNE 

brought  him  no  nearer  the  point  he  wished  to  find  out 
— whether  this  Thorn  was  the  same  man.  In  walking 
back  to  his  office  he  met  Mr.  Tom  Herbert. 

"Does  Captain  Thorn  purpose  making  a  long  stay 
with  you?"  he  stopped  him  to  inquire. 

'*He's  gone;  I  have  just  seen  him  off  by  the  train," 
was  the  reply.  "It  seemed  rather  slow  work  for  him 
without  Jack,  so  he  shortened  his  visit,  and  says  he 
will  pay  us  one  when  Jack's  to  the  fore." 

As  Mr.  Carlyle  went  home  to  dinner  that  evening, 
he  entered  the  Grove,  ostensibly  to  make  a  short  call 
on  Mrs.  Hare.  Barbara,  on  the  tenterhooks  of  impa- 
tience, accompanied  him  outside  when  he  departed, 
and  walked  dowm  the  path. 

"What  have  you  learnt?"  she  eagerly  asked. 
"Nothing  satisfactory,"  was  the  reply  of  Mr.  Carlyle. 
"The  man  is  gone." 

"Gone!"  said  Barbara. 

Mr.  Carlyle  explained.  He  told  her  how  they  had 
come  to  his  house  the  previous  evening  after  Barbara's 
departure,  and  his  encounter  with  Tom  Herbert  that 
day;  he  mentioned,  also,  his  interview  with  Bethel. 

"Can  he  have  gone  on  purpose,  fearing  conse- 
quences?" wondered  Barbara. 

"Scarcely,  or  why  should  he  have  come?" 

"You  did  not  suffer  any  word  to  escape  you  last 
night  causing  him  to  suspect  that  he  was  doubted?" 

' '  Not  any.   You  would  make  a  bad  lawyer,  Barbara. '  * 

"Who  or  what  is  he?" 

"An  officer  in  her  Majesty's  service,  in  John  Her- 
bert's regiment.  I  ascertained  no  more.  Tom  said 
he  was  of  good  family.  But  I  cannot  help  suspecting 
it  is  the  same  man." 

"Can  nothing  more  be  done?" 

"Nothing  in  the  present  state  of  the  affair,"  con- 
cluded Mr.  Carlyle,  as  he  passed  through  the  gate  to 
continue  his  way.  "We  can  only  wait  on  again  with 
what  patience  we  may,  hoping  that  time  will  bring 
about  its  own  elucidation." 

Barbara  pressed  her  forehead  down  on  the  cold  iron 


EAST  LYNNE  137 

of  the  gate  as  his  footsteps  died  way.  '*Ay,  to  wait 
on,"  she  murmured,  '*to  wait  on  in  dreary  pain;  to  wait 
on,  perhaps  for  years,  perhaps  forever!  And  poor 
Richard — wearing  out  his  days  in  poverty  and  exile!" 
Lady  Isabel  recovered  and  grew  strong.  And  a  few 
years  passed  smoothly  on,  no  particular  event  occur- 
ring to  note  them. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

FRANCIS   LEVISON 

Then  the  doctor  insisted  upon  a  change  of  scene, 
and  suggested  Boulogne.  So  to  Boulogne,  after  much 
persuasion.  Lady  Isabel  was  sent. 

One  day,  when  sitting  on  the  pier,  a  tall,  gentlemanly 
figure  approached.  Her  eyes  fell  upon  him ;  and — 
what  was  it  that  caused  every  nerve  in  her  frame  to 
vibrate,  every  pulse  to  quicken?  Whose  form  was  it 
that  v\'as  thus  advancing,  and  changing  the  monotony 
of  her  mind  into  a  tumult?  It  was  that  of  one  whom 
she  was  soon  to  find  had  never  been  entirely  forgotten. 

Captain  Levison  came  slowly  on,  approaching  the 
part  of  the  pier  where  she  sat.  He  glanced  at  her,  not 
with  the  hardihood  displayed  by  the  two  young  men, 
but  with  quite  sufficiently  evident  admiration. 

"What  a  lovely  girl!"  he  thought  to  himself.  "What 
can  she  be,  sitting  there  alone?"  All  at  once  a  recol- 
lection flashed  into  his  mind;  he  raised  his  hat  and 
extended  his  hand,  his  fascinating  smile  in  full  play. 

"I  certainly  cannot  be  mistaken.  Have  I  not  the 
honor  of  once  more  meeting  Lady  Isabel  Vane?"  She 
allowed  him  to  take  her  hand,  answering  a  few  words 
at  random,  for  her  wits  seemed  to  have  gone  wool- 
gathering. 

"I  beg  your  pardon — I  should  have  said  Lady  Isabel 
Carlyle.  Time  has  elapsed  since  we  parted,  and,  in 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  again  so  unexpectedly,  I 
thought  of  you  as  you  were  then." 

She  sat  down  again,  the  brilliant  flush  of  emotion 


138  EAST  LYNNE 

dying  away  on  her  cheeks.  It  was  the  loveliest  face 
Francis  Levison  had  seen  since  he  had  last  seen  hers, 
and  he  thought  so  as  he  gazed  at  it. 

"What  can  have  brought  you  to  this  place?"  he 
inquired,  taking  a  seat  by  her. 

"I  have  been  ill,"  she  explained,  '*and  am  ordered 
to  the  seaside.  We  should  not  have  come  here  but  for 
Mrs.  Ducie;  we  expected  to  meet  her.  Mr.  Carlyle 
only  left  me  this  morning." 

*'Mrs.  Ducie  is  off  to  Ems.  I  see  them  occasionally. 
They  have  been  fixtures  in  Paris  for  some  time. 
You  do  indeed  look  ill !"  he  abruptly  added,  in  a  tone 
of  sympathy;  "alarmingly  ill.  Is  there  anything  I  can 
do  for  you?" 

She  v/as  aware  that  she  looked  unusually  ill  at  that 
moment,  for  the  agitation  and  surprise  of  meeting  him 
were  fading  away,  leaving  her  face  of  an  ashy  white- 
ness. She  was  exceedingly  vexed  and  angry  with 
herself  that  the  meeting  him  should  have  had  power 
to  call  forth  emotion.  Until  that  momxcnt  she  was 
unconscious  that  she  retained  any  sort  of  feeling  for 
Captain  Levison. 

"Perhaps  I  have  ventured  out  too  early,"  she  said, 
in  a  tone  that  would  seem  to  apologize  for  her  looks; 
"I  think  I  will  return.  I  shall  meet  my  servant,  no 
doubt.     Good-morning,  Captain  Levison." 

"But  indeed  you  do  not  appear  fit  to  walk  alone,"  he 
remonstrated.  "You  must  allow  me  to  see  you  safely 
home." 

Drawing  her  hand  within  his  arm  quite  as  a  matter 
of  course,  as  he  had  done  many  a  time  in  days  gone 
by,  he  proceeded  to  assist  her  down  the  pier.  Lady 
Isabel,  conscious  of  her  own  feelings,  felt  that  it  was 
not  quite  the  thing  to  walk  thus  familiarly  with  him, 
but  he  was  a  sort  of  relation  of  the  family — a  connec- 
tion, at  any  rate,  and  she  could  find  no  ready  excuse 
for  declining. 

"Have  you  seen  Lady  Mount  Severn  lately?"  he 
■'.nquired. 

"I  saw  her  when  I  was  in  London  this  spring  with 


EAST  LYNNE  139 

Mr.  Carlyle.  The  first  time  we  have  met  since  my 
marriage;  we  do  not  correspond.  Lord  Mount 
Severn  has  paid  us  some  visits  at  East  Lynne.  They 
are  in  town  yet,  I  believe." 

"For  all  I  know.  I  have  not  seen  them,  or  Eng- 
land either,  foi  ten  months.  I  have  been  staying  in 
Paris,  and  got  here  yesterday." 

"A  long  leave  of  absence,"  she  observed. 

"Oh,.  I  have  left  the  army.  I  sold  out.  The  truth 
is.  Lady  Isabel — for  I  don't  mind  telling  you — things 
are  rather  down  with  me  at  present.  My  uncle  has 
behaved  shamefully;  he  has  married  again." 

"I  heard  that  Sir  Peter  had  married." 

"He  is  seventy-three — the  old  simpleton!  Of  course 
this  materially  alters  my  prospects,  for  it  is  just  possi- 
ble he  may  have  a  son  of  his  own  now;  and  my  cred- 
itors all  came  down  upon  me.  They  allowed  me  to 
run  in  debt  with  complacency  when  I  was  heir  to  the 
title  and  estates,  but  as  soon  as  Sir  Peter's  marriage 
appeared  in  the  papers,  myself  and  my  consequence 
dropped  a  hundred  per  cent;  credit  was  stopped,  and 
I  was  dunned  for  payment.  So  I  sold  out  and  came 
abroad. ' ' 

"Leaving  your  creditors?" 

"What  else  could  I  do?  My  uncle  would  not  pay 
them,  or  increase  my  allowance." 

"What  are  your  prospects,  then?"  resumed  Lady 
Isabel. 

"Prospects?  Do  you  see  that  little  ragged  boy 
throwing  stones  into  the  harbor? — it  is  well  if  the 
police  don't  drop  upon  him.  Ask  him  what  his  pros- 
pects are,  and  he  would  stare  in  your  face  and  say, 
*Non3. '     Mine  are  on  a  par. " 

"You  may  succeed  Sir  Peter  yet." 

"I  may;  but  I  may  not.  When  these  old  idiots  get 
a  young  wife " 

"Have  you  quarreled  with  Sir  Peter?"  interrupted 
Lady  Isabel. 

"I  should  quarrel  with  him  as  he  deserves,  if  it 
would  do  any  good ;   but  I   might  get  my  allowance 


140  EAST  LYNNE 

Stopped.  Self-interest,  you  see,  Lady  Isabel,  is  the 
order  of  the  day  with  most  of  us." 

"Do  you  purpose  staying  in  Boulogne  long?" 

"I  don't  know.  As  I  may  find  amusement.  Paris 
is  a  fast  capital,  with  its  heated  rooms  and  its  late 
hours,  and  I  came  down  for  the  refreshment  of  a  few 
sea  dips.     Am  I  walking  too  fast  for  you?" 

"You  increased  your  pace  alarmingly  when  you 
spoke  of  Sir  Peter's  marriage.  And  I  am  not  sorry 
for  it,"  she  added,  good-naturedly,  "for  it  has  proved 
to  me  how  strong  I  am  getting.  A  week  ago  I  could 
not  have  walked  half  so  fast." 

He  interrupted  with  eager  apologies,  and  soon  they 
reached  her  home.  Captain  Levison  entered  with  her 
— uninvited.  He  probably  deemed  that  between  con- 
nections great  ceremony  might  be  dispensed  with,  and 
he  sat  a  quarter  of  an  hour  chatting  to  amuse  her. 
When  he  arose,  he  inquired  what  she  meant  to  do  with 
herself  in  the  afternoon. 

"I  lie  down,"  replied'  Lady  Isabel.  "I  am  not 
strong  enough  to  sit  up  all  day," 

"Should  you  be  going  out  again  afterward,  you 
must  allow  me  to  take  care  of  you,"  he  observed.  "I 
am  glad  that  I  happen  to  be  here,  for  I  am  sure  you 
are  not  fit  to  wander  out  only  followed  by  a  servant. 
When  Mr.  Carlyle  comes  he  will  thank  me  for  my 
pains." 

What  was  she  to  urge  in  objection?  Simply  nothing. 
He  spoke,  let  us  not  doubt,  from  a  genuine  wish  to 
serve  her,  in  a  plain,  easy  tone,  as  any  acquaintance 
might  speak.  Lady  Isabel  schooled  herself  severely; 
if  those  old  feelings  were  not  quite  dead  within  her, 
why,  she  must  smother  them  down  again  as  effectually 
as  if  they  were ;  the  very  fact  of  recognizing  such  to 
her  own  heart  brought  its  glow  of  shame  to  her  brow. 
She  would  meet  Captain  Levison  and  suffer  his  com- 
panionship as  she  would  that  of  the  most  indifferent 
stranger. 

It  was  just  the  wrong  way  for  her  to  go  to  work. 

As  the  days  passed  on,  Lady  Isabel  improved  won- 


EAST  LYNNE  141 

derfully.  She  was  soon  able  to  go  to  the  sands  in  a 
morning  and  sit  there  to  enjoy  the  sea  air,  watching 
the  waves  come  up  or  recede  with  the  tide.  She  made 
no  acquaintance  whatever  in  the  place,  and  when  she 
had  a  companion  it  was  Captain  Levison.  He  would 
frequently  join  her  there,  sometimes  take  her,  almost 
always  give  her  his  arm  home.  She  disliked  having 
to  take  his  arm;  her  conscience  whispered  it  might  be 
better  if  she  did  not.  One  day  she  said,  in  a  joking 
sort  of  manner^ — she  would  not  say  it  in  any  other  way 
— that  now  she  was  strong,  she  had  no  need  of  his  arm 
and  his  escort.  He  demanded,  in  evident  astonish- 
ment, what  had  arisen  that  he  might  not  still  afford  it, 
as  her  husband  was  not  with  her  to  give  her  his.  She 
had  no  answer  to  reply  to  this,  no  excuse  to  urge,  and, 
in  default  of  one,  took  his  arm  as  usual.  In  the  even- 
ing he  was  always  ready  to  take  her  to  the  pier,  but 
they  sat  apart,  mixing  not  with  the  bustling  crowd, 
he  lending  to  his  manner,  as  he  conversed  with  her, 
all  that  it  could  call  up  of  fascination — and  fascination 
such  as  Francis  Levison's  might  be  dangerous  to  any 
ear  in  the  sweet  evening  twilight.  The  walk  over,  he 
left  her  at  her  own  door;  in  the  evening  she  never 
asked  him  in,  and  he  did  not  intrude  without,  as  he 
sometimes  would  do  of  a  morning. 

In  a  fortnight  from  the  period  of  his  departure,  Mr. 
Carlyle  was  expected  in  Boulogne.  But  what  a  mar- 
velous change  had  this  fortnight  wrought  in  Lady 
Isabel!  She  did  not  dare  to  analyze  her  feelings,  but 
she  was  conscious  that  all  the  fresh  emotions  of  her 
youth  had  come  again.  The  blue  sky  seemed  as  of 
the  sweetest  sapphire,  the  green  fields  and  the  waving 
trees  were  of  an  emerald  brightness,  the  perfume  of 
the  flowers  was  more  fragrant  than  any  perfume  had 
yet  seemed.  She  knew  that  the  sky,  that  the  grassy 
plains,  the  leafy  trees,  the  brilliant  flowers,  were  but 
as  they  ever  had  been;  she  knew  that  the  sunny 
atmosphere  possessed  no  more  of  loveliness,  or  power 
of  imparting  delight,  than  of  old ;  and  she  knew  that 
the  change,  the  sensation  of  ecstasy,  was  in  her  own 


142  EAST  LYNNE 

heart.  No  wonder  that  she  shrank  from  self-examina- 
tion. 

The  change  from  listless  languor  to  her  present  feel- 
ings brought  the  hue  and  contour  of  health  to  her  face 
far  sooner  than  anything  else  could  have  done.  She 
went  down  with  Captain  Levison  to  meet  Mr.  Carlyle 
the  evening  he  came  in,  and  when  Mr.  Carlyle  saw  her 
behind  the  cords  as  he  was  going  to  the  custom-house, 
he  scarcely  knew  her.  Her  features  had  lost  their 
sharpness,  her  cheeks  wore  a  rosy  flush,  and  the  light 
of  pleasure  at  meeting  him  again  shone  in  her  eyes. 

"What  can  you  have  been  doing  to  yourself,  my 
darling?"  he  uttered  in  delight,  as  he  emerged  from 
the  custom-house  and  took  her  hands  in  his.  "You 
look  almost  well." 

"Yes,  I  am  much  better,  Archibald,  but  I  am  warm 
now  and  flushed.  We  have  waited  here  some  time; 
and  the  setting  sun  was  full  upon  us.  How  long  the 
boat  was  coming  in." 

"The  wind  was  dead  against  us,"  replied  Mr.  Car- 
lyle, wondering  who  the  exquisite  was  at  his  wife's 
side.  He  thought  he  remembered  his  face.  "Captain 
•  Levison,"  said  Lady  Isabel.  "I  wrote  you  word  in 
one  of  my  letters  that  he  was  here.  Have  you  forgot- 
ten it?" 

Yes,  it  had  slipped  from  his  memory. 

"And  I  am  pleased  that  it  happened  to  be  so,"  said 
that  gentleman,  interposing,  "for  it  has  enabled  me 
to  attend  Lady  Isabel  in  some  of  her  walks.  She  is 
stronger  now,  but  at  flrst  she  was  unfit  to  venture 
alone." 

"I  feel  much  indebted  to  you,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle, 
warmly. 

The  following  day  was  Sunday,  and  Francis  Levison 
was  asked  to  dine  with  them ;  the  first  meal  he  had 
been  invited  to  in  the  house.  After  dinner,  when  Lady 
Isabel  left  them,  he  grew  confidential  with  Mr.  Carlyle ; 
laying  open  all  his  cargo  of  troubles. 

"This  compulsory  exile  abroad  is  becoming  intoler- 
able," he  concluded;  "and  a  Paris  life  plays  the  very 


EAST  LYNNE  143 

deuce  with  one.  Do  you  see  any  chance  of  my  getting 
back  to  England?" 

"Not  the  least,"  was  the  candid  answer,  "unless 
you  can  manage  to  satisfy,  or  partially  satisfy,  these 
claims  you  have  been  telling  me  of.  Will  not  Sir 
Peter  assist  you?" 

"I  believe  he  would,  were  the  case  fairly  repre- 
sented to  him;  but  how  am  I  to  get  over  to  do  it?  I 
have  written  several  letters  to  him  lately,  and  for  some 
time  I  got  no  reply.  Then  came  an  epistle  from  Lady 
Levison,  not  short  and  sweet,  but  short  and  sour.  It 
was  to  the  effect  that  Sir  Peter  was  ill,  and  could  not 
at  present  be  troubled  V\^ith  business  matters." 

"He  cannot  be  very  ill, "  remarked  Mr.  Carlyle;  "he 
passed  through  West  Lynne  in  his  open  carriage  a 
week  ago." 

"He  ought  to  help  me,"  grumbled  Captain  Levison, 
"I  am  his  heir,  so  long  as  Lady  Levison  does  not  give 
him  one.     I  do  not  hear  that  she  has  expectations." 

"You  should  contrive  to  see  him." 

"1  know  I  should;  but  it  is  not  possible,  under  pres- 
ent circumstances.  With  these  thunder-clouds  hang- 
ing over  me,  I  dare  not  set  foot  in  England  and  run 
the  risk  of  being  dropped  upon.  I  can  stand  a  few 
things,  but  I  shudder  at  the  bare  idea  of  a  prison. 
Something  peculiar  in  my  idiosyncrasy  I  take  it,  for 
those  who  have  tried  it  say  that  it's  nothing  when 
you're  used  to  it." 

"Some  one  might  see  him  for  you." 

"Some  one! — who?  I  have  quarreled  with  my  law- 
yers, Sharp  &  Steel,  of  Lincoln's  Inn." 

"Keen  practitioners,"  put  in  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"Too  keen  for  me.  I'd  send  them  over  the  herring-pond 
if  I  could.  They  have  used  me  shamefully  since  my 
uncle's  marriage.  If  ever  I  do  come  into  the  Levison 
estates,  they'll  be  ready  to  eat  their  heads  off ;  they  would 
like  a  finger  in  the  pie  with  such  a  property  as  that." 

"Shall  I  see  Sir  Peter  Levison  for  you?" 

"Will  you?"  returned  Captain  Levison,  his  dark 
eyes  lighting  up. 


144  EAST  LYNNE 

**If  you  like;  as  your  friend,  you  understand;  not  as 
your  solicitor;  that  I  should  decline.  I  have  a  slight 
knowledge  of  Sir  Peter;  my  father  was  well  acquainted 
with  him ;  and  if  I  can  render  you  any  little  service  I 
shall  be  happy,  in  return  for  your  kind  attention  to  my 
wife.  I  cannot  promise  to  see  him  for  these  two  or 
three  weeks,"  resumed  Mr.  Carlyle,  "for  we  are  terri- 
bl}^  busy.  Otherwise  I  should  be  staying  here  w^ith  my 
wife." 

Lady  Isabel  felt  that  her  old  feeling  of  attraction 
towards  this  man  w^as  creeping  over  her,  and  she 
resolved  to  put  him  out  of  her  life  forever, 

"Archibald,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you,"  she  tim- 
idly began,  as  they  sat  together  after  Captain  Levison's 
departure.     "You  must  promise  to  grant  it  to  me." 

"What  is  it?" 

"But  that  is  not  promising." 

"I  will  grant  it,  Isabel,  if  it  be  in  my  power." 

"I  want  you  to  remain  with  me  for  the  rest  of  the 
time  that  I  must  stay  here." 

Mr.  Carlyle  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "My  dear, 
how  could  you  think  of  wishing  anything  so  unlikely? 
It  is  circuit  time." 

"Oh,  Archibald,  you  must  remain!" 

"I  wish  I  could;  but  it  is  impossible;  you  must  know 
it  to  be  so,  Isabel.  A  few  weeks  later  in  the  year, 
and  I  could  have  sta3^ed  the  whole  of  the  time  with 
you.  As  it  is,  I  did  not  know  how  to  get  away  for 
these  two  or  three  days." 

"And  you  go  back  to-morrow?" 

"Necessity  has  no  law,  my  darling." 

"Then  take  me  with  you," 

Mr,  Carlyle  smiled.  "No,  Isabel;  not  while  I  find 
the  change  is  doing  you  so  much  good,  I  took  these 
rooms  for  six  weeks ;  you  must  remain  certainly  to  the 
end  of  the  term,  if  not  longer,"  The  color  came  flow- 
ing painfully  into  her  cheek,  "I  cannot  stay  without 
you,  Archibald," 

"Tell  me  why,"  smiled  Mr.  Carlyle. 

Tell  him  why!     "I   am   so  dull  without  you,"  was 


EAST  LYNNE  145 

the  best  argument  she  could  offer,  but  her  voice  fal- 
tered, for  she  felt  that  it  would  not  be  listened  to. 

Neither  was  it.  Mr.  Carlyle  left  the  following  day, 
and  when  he  was  departing,  commended  his  wife  to 
the  further  attention  of  Captain  Levison.  Not  the 
faintest  suspicion  that  it  might  be  unwise  to  do  so  ever 
crossed  his  mind.  How  should  it?  Perfectly  correct 
and  honorable  in  himself,  it  never  occurred  to  him 
that  Captain  Levison  might  be  less  so;  and,  as  to  his 
wife — he  would  fearlessly  have  left  her  alone  with 
him,  or  with  any  one  else,  on  a  desert  island,  so  entire 
was  his  confidence  in  her. 


CHAPTER  XXn 

QUITTING   THE   DANGER 

Lady  Isabel  was  seated  on  one  of  the  benches  of  the 
Petit  Camp,  as  it  is  called,  underneath  the  ramparts 
of  the  upper  town.  A  week  or  ten  days  had  passed 
away  since  the  departure  of  Mr.  Carlyle,  and  in  her 
health  there  was  a  further  visible  improvement.  In 
her  strength  the  change  was  almost  beyond  belief. 
She  had  walked  from  her  home  to  the  cemetery,  had 
lingered  there,  reading  the  inscriptions  on  the  English 
graves,  and  now  on  her  departure  sat  down  to  rest. 
Tired,  it  must  be  owned,  but  not  much  more  so  than 
many  a  lady  would  be,  rejoicing  in  rude  health.  Cap- 
tain Levison  was  her  companion,  as  he  mostly  was  in 
her  walks;  shake  him  off  she  could  not. 

''Do  you  remember  the  evening,  Lady  Isabel,  just 
such  a  one  as  this,  that  we  all  passed  at  Richmond?" 
he  suddenly  asked.  "Your  father,  Mrs.  Vane,  you 
and  I  and  others." 

"Yes,  I  remember  it.  We  had  spent  a  pleasant 
day;  the  two  Miss  Challoners  were  with  us.  You  drove 
Mrs.  Vane  home,  and  I  went  with  papa.  You  drove 
recklessly,  I  recollect,  and  Mrs.  Vane  said  when  we 
got  home  that  you  should  never  drive  her  again." 

10  Lynne 


146  EAST  LYNNE 

*' Which  meant  not  till  the  next  time.  Of  all  capri- 
cious, vain,  exacting  women,  Emma  Vane  was  the 
worst;  and  Emma  Mount  Severn  is  no  improvement 
upon  it;  she's  a  systematic  flirt.  I  drove  recklessly 
on  purpose  to  put  her  in  a  fright,  and  pay  her  off." 

*'What  had  she  done  to  you?" 

"Put  me  in  a  rage.  She  had  saddled  herself  upon 
me,  when  I  wanted — I  wished  for  another  to  be  my 
companion." 

"Blanche  Challoner. " 

"Blanche  Challoner!"  echoed  Captain  Levison,  in  a 
mocking  tone;  "what  did  I  care  for  Blanche  Chal- 
loner?" 

Isabel  remembered  that  he  had  been  supposed  in 
those  days  to  care  a  great  deal  for  Miss  Blanche  Chal- 
loner— a  most  lovely  girl  of  seventeen.  "Mrs.  Vane 
tried  to  accuse  you  of  caring  too  much  for  her, ' '  she 
said,  aloud. 

"She  accused  me  of  caring  for  some  one  else  more 
than  for  Blanche  Challoner, "  he  significantly  returned, 
"and  for  once  her  jealous  surmises  were  not  misplaced. 
No,  Lady  Isabel,  it  was  not  Blanche  Challoner  I  wished 
to  drive  home.  Could  you  not  have  given  a  better 
guess  than  that,  at  the  time?"  he  added,  turning  to 
her.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  tone  of  his  voice  or 
the  glance  of  his  eye.  Lady  Isabel  felt  a  crimson  flush 
rising,  and  she  turned  her  face  away. 

"The  past  is  gone,  and  cannot  be  recalled,"  he  con- 
tinued, "but  we  both  played  our  parts  like  simpletons. 
If  ever  two  beings  were  formed  to  love  each  other,  you 
and  I  were.  I  sometimes  thought  you  read  my  feel- 
ings  " 

Surprise  had  kept  her  silent,  but  she  interrupted 
him  now,  haughtily  enough.  "I  must  speak.  Lady 
Isabel;  a  few  words,  and  then  I  am  silent  forever.  I 
would  have  declared  myself  had  I  dared,  but  my  uncer- 
tain position,  my  debts,  my  inability  to  keep  a  wife, 
weighed  me  down ;  and,  instead  of  appealing  to  Sir 
Peter,  as  I  hoped  to  have  done,  for  the  means  to 
assume  a  position  that  would  justify  me  in  asking  for 


EAST  LYNNE  147 

Lord  Mount  Severn's  daughter,  I  crushed  my  hopes 
within  me,  and  suffered  you  to  escape " 

"I  will  not  hear  this.  Captain  Levison,"  she  cried, 
rising  from  her  seat  in  anger.  He  touched  her  arm  to 
place  her  on  it  again.  "One  single  moment  yet,  I  pray 
you.  I  have  for  years  wished  that  you  should  know 
why  I  lost  you — a  loss  that  tells  upon  me  yet.  I  have 
bitterly  worked  out  my  own  folly  since.  I  knew  not 
how  passionately  I  loved  you  until  you  became  the  wife 
of  another.      Isabel,  I  love  you  passionately  still." 

"How  dare  you  to  presume  so  to  address  me?" 

She  spoke  in  a  cold,  dignified  tone  of  hauteur,  as  it 
was  her  bounden  duty  to  speak.  But,  nevertheless, 
she  was  conscious  of  an  undercurrent  of  feeling,  whis- 
pering that  under  other  auspices  the  avowal  would 
have  brought  to  her  heart  the  most  intense  bliss. 

"What  I  have  said  can  do  no  harm  now,"  resumed 
Captain  Levison;  "the  time  has  gone  by  for  it;  for 
neither  you  nor  I  are  likely  to  forget  that  you  are  a 
wife.  We  have  each  chosen  our  path  in  life  and  must 
abide  by  it;  the  gulf  between  us  is  impassable;  but  the 
fault  was  mine.  I  ought  to  have  avowed  my  affection, 
and  not  have  suffered  you  to  throw  yourself  away 
upon  Mr.  Carlyle. " 

"Throw  myself  away!"  she  indignantly  uttered, 
roused  to  the  retort.  "Mr.  Carlyle  is  my  dear  husband, 
esteemed,  respected,  beloved.  1  married  him  of  my 
own  free  choice,  and  I  have  never  repented  it.  I  have 
grown  more  attached  to  him  day  by  day.  Look  at  his 
noble  nature,  his  noble  form ;  what  are  you  by  his  side? 
You  forget  yourself,  Francis  Levison!" 

He  bit  his  lips. 

"No,  I  do  not." 

"You  are  talking  to  me  as  you  have  no  right  to 
talk,"  she  exclaimed,  in  her  agitation.  "Who,  but 
you,  would  so  insult  me,  or  take  advantage  of  my 
unprotected  condition?  Would  you  dare  to  do  it  were 
Mr.  Carlyle  within  reach?  I  wish  you  good-evening, 
sir.  "  She  walked  away  as  quickly  as  her  tired  frame 
would  permit.     Captain  Levison  strode  after  her.    He 


US  EAST  LYNNE 

took  forcible  possession  of  her  hand  and  placed  it 
within  his  arm. 

"I  pray  you  forgive  and  forget  what  has  escaped 
me,  Lady -Isabel.  Suffer  me  to  be,  as  before,  the  kind 
friend,  the  anxious  brother,  endeavoring  to  be  of  ser- 
vice to  you  in  the  absence  of  Mr.  Carlyle. " 

*'It  is  what  I  have  suffered  you  to  be,  looking  upon 
you  as,  I  may  say,  a  relative,"  she  coldly  rejoined, 
withdrawing  her  hand  from  his  contact.  "Not  else 
should  I  have  permitted  your  incessant  companionship, 
and  this  is  how  you  have  repaid  it.  My  husband 
thanked  you  for  your  attention  to  me;  could  he  have 
read  what  was  in  your  false  heart  he  had  offered  you 
a  different  sort  of  thanks,  1  fancy." 

*'I  ask  you  for  pardon,  Lady  Isabel;  I  have  acknowl- 
edged my  fault ;  but  I  can  do  no  more.  I  v/ill  not  so 
offend  again ;  but  there  are  moments  when  our  dearest 
feelings  break  through  the  rules  of  life  and  betray 
themselves,  in  spite  of  our  sober  judgment.  Suffer 
me  to  support  you  down  this  steep  hill,"  he  added, 
for  they  were  then  going  over  the  sharp  stones  of  the 
Grande  Rue;  "you  are  not  strong  enough  to  proceed 
alone,  after  this  evening's  long  walk." 

"You  should  have  thought  of  that  before,"  she  said, 
some  sarcasm  in  her  tone.     "No,  I  have  declined." 

So  he  had  to  put  his  arm  back,  which  he  was  holding 
out,  and  she  walked  on  unsupported  with  what 
strength  she  had,  he  continuing  to  walk  by  her  side. 
Arrived  at  her  own  door,  she  wished  him  a  cold  good- 
evening,  and  he  turned  away  in  the  direction  of  his 
hotel. 

Lady  Isabel  brushed  past  Peter,  and  flew  upstairs, 
startling  Wilson,  who  had  taken  possession  of  the 
drawing-room  to  air  her  smart  cap  at  its  windows  in 
the  absence  of  her  lad3^ 

"My  desk,  Wilson,  immediately,"  cried  she,  tearing 
off  her  gloves,  her  bonnet  and  her  shawl.  "Tell  Peter 
to  be  in  readiness  to  take  a  letter  to  the  post;  and  he 
must  walk  fast,  or  he  will  not  catch  it  before  the  Eng- 
lish mail  is  closed." 


EAS'i  L^NMii  149 

The  symptoms  of  sinful  happiness  throbbing  at  her 
heart  while  Francis  Levison  told  her  of  his  love,  spoke 
plainly  to  Lady  Isabel  of  the  expediency  of  withdraw- 
ing entirely  from  his  society  and  his  dangerous  sophis- 
tries; she  would  be  away  from  the  very  place  that 
contained  him;  put  the  sea  between  them.  So  she 
dashed  off  a  letter  to  her  husband ;  an  urgent  summons 
that  he  should  come  for  her  without  delay,  for  remain 
longer  she  would  not.  It  is  probable  she  would  have 
started  alone,  not  waiting  for  Mr.  Carlyle,  but  for  fear 
of  not  having  sufficient  funds  for  the  journey,  after 
the  rent  and  the  other  things  were  paid. 

Mr.  Carlyle,  when  he  received  the  letter  and  marked 
its  earnest  tone,  wondered  much.  In  reph^  he  stated 
he  would  be  with  her  on  the  following  Saturday,  and 
then  her  returning  or  not  with  him  would  be  settled. 
Fully  determined  not  to  meet  Captain  Levison,  Isabel, 
in  the  intervening  days,  only  went  out  in  a  carriage. 
He  called  once  and  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room; 
but  Lady  Isabel,  who  happened  to  be  in  her  own 
chamber,  sent  out  a  message,  which  was  delivered  by 
Peter.  "My  lady  s  compliments,  but  she  must  decline 
receiving  visitors." 

Sunday  morning — it  had  been  impossible  for  him  to 
get  away  before — brought  Mr.  Carlyle.  He  strongly 
combatted  her  wish  to  return  home  until  the  six  weeks 
should  have  expired;  he  nearly  said  he  would  not  take 
her,  and  she  grew  earnest  over  it,  almost  to  agitation. 
"Isabel,"  he  said,  "let  me  know  your  motive,  for  it 
appears  to  me  that  you  have  one.  The  sojourn  here  is 
evidently  doing  you  a  vast  deal  of  good,  and  what  you 
urge  about  'being  dull'  sounds  very  like  nonsense. 
Tell  me  what  it  is." 

A  sudden  impulse  flashed  over  her  that  she  would 
tell  him  the  truth.  Not  tell  him  that  she  loved  Francis 
Levison,  or  that  he  had  spoken  to  her  as  he  did;  she 
valued  her  husband  too  greatly  to  draw  him  into  any 
unpleasantness  whose  end  could  not  be  seen ;  but  own 
to  him  that  she  had  once  felt  a  passing  fancy  for 
Francis  Levison,  and  preferred  not  to  be   subjected  to 


150  EAST  LYNNE 

his  companionship  now.  Oh,  that  she  had  done  so!  her 
kind,  her  noble,  her  judicious  husband!  Why  did  she 
not?  The  whole  truth  as  to  her  present  feelings  it 
was  not  expedient  that  she  should  tell,  but  she  might 
have  confided  to  him  quite  sufficient.  He  would  only 
have  cherished  her  the  more  deeply,  and  sheltered  her 
under  his  fostering  care,  safe  from  harm. 

Why  did  she  not?  In  the  impulse  of  the  moment 
she  was  about  to  do  so,  when  Mr.  Carlyle,  who  had 
been  taking  a  letter  from  his  pocketbook,  put  it  into 
her  hand.  Upon  what  slight  threads  do  the  events  of 
life  turn!  Her  thoughts  diverted,  she  remained  silent 
while  she  opened  the  letter.  It  was  from  Miss  Carlyle, 
who  handed  it  to  her  brother  in  the  mom^ent  of  his 
departure,  to  carry  to  Lady  Isabel  and  save  postage. 
Mr.  Carlyle  had  nearly  dropped  it  into  the  Folkestone 
postoffice. 

A  letter  as  stiff  as  Miss  Corny  herself.  The  chil- 
dren were  well  and  the  house  was  going  on  well,  and 
she  hoped  Lady  Isabel  was  better.  It  filled  three 
sides  of  note-paper,  but  that  was  all  the  news  it  con- 
tained, and  it  wound  up  with  the  following  sentence: 
"I  would  continue  my  epistle,  but  Barbara  Hare,  who 
is  to  spend  the  day  with  us,  has  just  arrived." 

Barbara  Hare  spending  the  day  at  East  Lynne! 
That  item  v/as  quite  enough  for  Lady  Isabel;  and  her 
heart  and  her  confidence  closed  to  her  husband.  She 
must  go  home  to  her  children,  she  urged;  she  could 
not  remain  longer  away  from  them;  and  she  urged  it 
at  length  with  tears. 

**Nay,  Isabel,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle,  "if  you  are  so 
much  in  earnest  as  this,  you  shall  certainly  go  back 
with  me."  Then  she  was  like  a  child  let  loose  from 
school.  She  laughed;  she  danced  in  her  excess  of  con- 
tent; she  showered  kisses  on  her  husband,  thanking 
him  in  her  gleeful  gratitude.  Mr.  Carlyle  set  it  down 
to  her  love  for  him ;  he  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that, 
in  reiterating  that  she  could  not  bear  to  be  away  from 
him,  she  spoke  the  fond  truth. 

''Isabel,"  he  said,  smiling  tenderly  upon  her,  "do 


EAST  LYNNE  151 

you  remember,  in  the  first  days  of  our  marriage,  you 
told  me  you  did  not  love  me,  but  that  the  love  would 
come?  I  think  this  is  it."  Her  face  flushed  nearly  to 
tears  at  the  word ;  a  bright,  glowing,  all  too  conscious 
flush.  Mr.  Carlyie  mistook  its  source,  and  caught  her 
to  his  heart. 

One  day  more,  and  then  they — she  and  that  man — 
should  be  separated  by  the  broad  sea!  The  thought 
caused  her  to  lift  up  her  heart  in  thankfulness.  She 
knew  that  to  leave  him  would  be  as  though  she  left  the 
sun  behind  her,  that  the  other  side  might  for  a  time 
be  somevvrhat  dreary;  nevertheless,  she  fervently 
thanked  Heaven.  Oh,  reader!  never  doubt  the  prin-"' 
ciples  of  poor  Lady  Isabel;  her  reticence  of  mind,  her 
wish  and  endeavor  to  do  right,  her  abhorrence  of 
wrong.  Her  spirit  was  earnest  and  true,  her  inten-^ 
tions  were  pure. 

Captain  Levison  paid  a  visit  to  Mr.  Carlyie,  and 
inquired  if  he  had  had  time  to  see  Sir  Peter.  Not  yet; 
Mr.  Carlyie  had  been  too  busy  to  think  of  it;  but  he 
should  soon  have  more  leisure  on  his  hands,  and  would 
not  fail  him.  Such  was  the  reply — the  reply  of  an 
honorable  man  to  a  m.an  of  dishonor;  but  of  the  dis- 
honor Mr.  Carlyie  suspected  nothing.  It  is  a  pity  but 
what  bad  men  could  be  turned  inside  out  sometimes 
to  put  others  on  their  guard. 

It  was  high  water  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  Folke- 
stone boat  announced  to  start  at  one.  The  Carlyles 
and  their  servants  went  on  board  in  good  time,  and 
Captain  Levison  greeted  them  and  said  farewell  as 
they  stepped  on  the  steamer.  Lady  Isabel  took  her 
seat  on  the  deck,  her  husband  standing  by  her;  the 
cords  were  unloosened,  and  the  boat  moved  slowly 
dov/n  the  harbor.  On  the  shore  stood  Francis  Levi- 
son, watching  its  progress,  watching  her.  He  was  a 
bold,  unscrupulous  man;  and  there  was  little  doubt 
that  the  more  refined  feelings,  both  of  the  past  and 
present,  he  had  thought  fit  to  avow  for  Lady  Isabel, 
were  all  put  on,  meant  to  servp  a  purpose.  However, 
he  had  received  his  checkmate. 


152  EAST  LYNNE 

As  he  receded  from  Isabel's  view,  a  sensation  of 
relief  thrilled  through  her  whole  frame,  causing  it  to 
shudder,  and  involuntarily  she  clasped  the  hand  of  Mr. 
Carlyle. 

"You  are  not  cold,  Isabel?"  he  said,  bending  over 
her.     ''Oh,  no;  I  am  very  comfortable;  very  happy." 

"But  you  were  surely  shivering?" 

"At  the  thought  of  what  I  could  have  done  with 
myself  had  you  come  away  and  left  me  there  still,  all 
alone.  Archibald,"  she  continued,  in  an  impassioned 
whisper,  "never  let  me  go  from  you  again;  keep  me 
by  you  always. ' '  He  smiled,  as  he  looked  down  into  her 
pleading  eyes,  and  a  whole  world  of  tender  response 
and  love  might  be  detected  in  his  earnest  tone. 
"Always  and  always,  Isabel.  It  is  greater  pain  to  me 
than  to  you,  to  have  you  away  from  me  " 

How  could  she  ever  doubt  him? 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   FRACTURED  ANKLE 

Lady  Isabel  had  returned  home  to  bodily  health,  to 
the  delight  of  meeting  her  children,  to  the  glad  sensa- 
tion of  security.  But,  as  the  days  went  on,  a  miser- 
able  feeling  of  apathy  stole  over  her — a  feeling  as  if 
all  whom  she  had  loved  in  the  world  had  died,  leaving 
her  living  and  alone.  It  was  a  painful  depression,  the 
vacuum  in  her  heart  which  was  making  itself  felt  in 
its  keen  intensity.  She  strove  to  drive  that  bad  man 
from  her  thoughts;  but,  even  while  she  so  strove,  he 
was  again  in  them.  Too  frequently  she  caught  her- 
self thinking  that  if  she  could  but  see  him  once  again, 
for  ever  so  short  a  period,  one  hour,  one  day,  she  could 
compose  her  spirit  afterward  to  rest.  She  did  not 
encourage  these  reflections,  but  they  thrust  them- 
selves continually  forward.  The  form  of  Francis 
Levison  was  ever  present  to  her ;  not  a  minute  of  the 
day  but  it  gave  the  coloring  to  her  thoughts,  and  at 
night  it  made  the  subject  of  her  dreams.     Oh,  those 


EAST  LYNNE  1,53 

dreams!  they  were  painful  to  wake  from;  painful  from 
the  contrast  they  presented  to  reality;  and  equally 
painful  to  her  conscience,  in  its  strife  after  what  was 
right.  She  would  have  given  much  not  to  have  these 
dreams;  never  to  see  or  think  of  him  in  her  sleep.  But 
how  prevent  it?  There  was  no  prevention;  for  when 
the  mind  (or  the  imagination,  if  you  like  the  word 
better)  is  thoroughly  imbued  with  a  subject  of  this 
nature,  especially  if  unhappiness  mingles  with  it,  then 
the  dreams  follow  necessarily  the  bent  of  the  waking 
thoughts.  Poor  Lady  Isabel  would  awake  to  self- 
reproach,  restless  and  feverish,  wishing  that  this  terri- 
ble disease  could  be  driven  away,  root  and  branch ; 
but  Time,  the  great  healer,  must,  she  knew,  pass  over 
her,  before  that  could  be. 

Mr.  Carlyle  mounted  his  horse  one  morning  and 
rode  over  to  Levison  Park.  He  asked  for  Sir  Peter, 
but  was  shown  into  the  presence  of  Lady  Levison,  a 
young  and  pretty  woman,  dressed  showily.  She 
inquired  his  business. 

"My  business,  madame,  is  with  Sir  Peter." 

"But  Sir  Peter  is  not  well  enough  to  attend  to  busi- 
ness.    It  upsets  him;  worries  him." 

"Nevertheless,  I  am  here  by  his  own  appointment. 
Twelve  o'clock  he  mentioned,  and  the  hour  has  barely 
struck. ' ' 

Lady  Levison  bit  her  lip  and  bowed  coldly ;  and  at 
that  moment  a  servant  appeared  to  conduct  Mr.  Car- 
lyle to  Sir  Peter.  The  matter  which  had  taken  Mr. 
Carlyle  there  was  entered  upon  immediately — Francis 
Levison,  his  debts  and  his  gracelessness.  Sir  Peter, 
an  old  gentleman  in  a  velvet  skull-cap,  particularly 
enlarged  upon  the  latter. 

"I  would  pay.  his  debts  to-day  and  set  him  upon  his 
legs  again,  but  that  I  know  I  should  have  to  do  the 
same  thing  over  and  over  again  to  the  end  of  the  chap- 
ter— as  I  have  done  before,"  cried  Sir  Peter.  "His 
grandfather  was  my  only  brother,  his  father  my  duti- 
ful and  beloved  nephew;  but  he  is  just  as  bad  as  they 


154  EAST  LYNNE 

were  estimable.   He  is  a  worthless  fellow,  and  nothing 
else,  Mr.  Carlyle." 

As  Mr.  Carlyle  left  Sir  Peter's  presence,  he  encoun- 
tered Lady  Levison.  "I  can  scarcely  be  ignorant  that 
your  conference  with  my  husband  has  reference  to  his 
grand-nephew,"  she  observed. 

**It  has,"  replied  Mr.  Carlyle. 

'*I  have  a  very  bad  opinion  of  him,  Mr.  Carlyle;  at 
the  same  time  I  do  not  wish  you  to  carry  away  a 
wrong  impression  of  me.  Francis  Levison  is  my  hus- 
band's nephew,  his  presumptive  heir;  it  may  therefore 
appear  strange  that  I  set  my  face  so  determinedly 
against  him.  Two  or  three  years  ago,  previous  to  my 
marriage  with  Sir  Peter — in  fact,  before  I  knew  Sir 
Peter — 1  was  brought  into  contact  with  Francis  Levi- 
son. He  was  acquainted  with  some  friends  of  mine, 
and  at  their  house  I  met  him.  He  behaved  shamefully 
ill;  he  repaid  their  hospitality  with  gross  ingratitude. 
Other  details  and  facts  regarding  his  conduct  also 
became  known  to  me.  Altogether,  I  believe  him  to 
be  a  base  and  despicable  man,  both  by  nature  and 
inclination,  and  that  he  will  remain  such  to  the  end 
of  time." 

"I  know  very  little  indeed  of  him,"  observed  Mr. 
Carlyle.  "May  I  inquire  the  nature  of  his  ill  conduct 
in  the  instance  you  mention?" 

"He  ruined  them — he  ruined  them,  Mr.  Carlyle. 
They  were  simple,  unsuspicious  country  people, 
understanding  neither  fraud  nor  vice,  nor  the  ways  of 
an  evil  world.  Francis  Levison  got  them  to  put  their 
names  to  bills,  'as  a  simple  matter  of  form,  to  accom- 
modate him  for  a  month  or  so,'  he  stated,  and  so  they 
believed.  They  were  not  wealthy;  they  lived  upon 
their  own  small  estate  in  comfort,  but  with  no  super- 
fluous money  to  spare,  and  when  the  time  came  for 
them  to  pay — as  come  it  did — it  brought  ruin,  and 
they  had  to  leave  their  home.  He  deliberately  did  it; 
1  am  certain  that  Francis  Levison  deliberately  did  it, 
knowing  what  would  be  the  end.  And  I  could  tell  you 
of  other  things.      Sir  Peter  may  have  informed  you 


SAST  LYNNII  '  ;j_55 

that  1  object  to  j*eeeive  liim  hers.  I  dc.  My  objection 
is  to  the  man,  to  his  character ;  not  owing-,  as  I  hear  it 
has  been  said,  to  any  jealous,  paltry  feeling  touching 
his  being  the  heir.  1  must  lose  my  own  self-respect 
before  I  admit  Francis  Levison  to  my  house  as  an 
inmate.  Sir  Peter  may  assist  him,  may  pay  his  debts 
and  get  him  out  of  his  scrapes  as  often  as  he  pleases; 
but  I  will  not  have  him  here." 

''Sir  Peter  said  yoti  declined  to  receive  him.  But  it 
is  necessary  he  should  come  to  England  if  his  affairs 
are  to  be  set  straight,  and  also  that  he  should  see  Sir 
Peter." 

"Come  to  England?"  interrupted  Lady  Levison. 
"How  can  he  come  to  England  under  the  present  cir- 
cumstances, unless,  indeed,  he  comes  en  cachette.'' 

''En  cachette,  of  course,"  replied  Mr.  Carlyle. 
"There  is  no  other  way.  I  have  offered  to  let  him 
stay  at  East  Lynne ;  he  is,  you  may  be  aware,  a  con- 
nection of  Lady  Isabel's." 

"Take  care  that  he  does  not  repay  your  hospitality 
with  ingratitude,"  warmly  returned  Lady  Levison. 
"It  would  only  be  in  accordance  with  his  practice." 

Mr.  Carlyle  laughed.  "I  do  not  well  see  what  harm 
he  could  do  me,  allowing  that  he  had  the  inclination. 
He  v\^ould  not  scare  my  clients  from  me,  nor  beat  my 
children,  and  I  can  take  care  of  my  pocket.  A  few 
days,  no  doubt,  will  be  the  extent  of  his  sojourn." 

Lady  Levison  smiled,  too,  and  shook  hands  with 
Mr.  Carlyle.  "In  3^our  house  perhaps  there  may  be 
no  field  for  his  vagaries;  but  rely  upon  it,  where  there 
is  one  he  is  sure  to  be  at  some  mischief  or  other." 

The  visit  of  Mr.  Carlyle  to  Levison  Park  took  place 
on  a  Friday  morning,  and  on  his  return  to  his  office  he 
dispatched  an  account  of  it  to  Captain  Levison  at 
Boulogne,  telling  him  to  come  over.  But  Mr.  Carlyle, 
like  many  another  man  whose  brain  has  its  share  of 
work,  was  sometimes  forgetful  of  trifles,  and  it  entirely 
slipped  his  memory  to  mention  the  expected  arrival  at 
home.  The  following  evenmg,  Saturday,  he  and 
Ladv  Isabel  were  dining  in   the  neighborhood,  when 


156  Ex\ST  LYiNNE 

the  conversation  at  table  turned  upon  the  Ducies  and 
their  embarrassments.  The  association  of  ideas  led 
Mr.  Carlyle's  thoughts  to  Boulogne,  to  Captain  Levi- 
son  and  his  embarrassments,  and  it  immediately- 
occurred  to  him  that  he  had  not  told  his  wife  of  the 
anticipated  visit.  He  kept  it  in  his  mind,  and  spoke 
as  soon  as  they  were  in  the  chariot  returning  home. 

"Isabel,"  he  began,  "I  suppose  we  have  always 
rooms  ready  for  visitors,  because  I  am  expecting  one?" 

"Oh,  yes.     Or,  if  not,  they  are  soon  made  ready." 

"Ay,  but  to-morrow  is  Sunday,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
that  it  is  the  day  he  will  take  advantage  of  to  come. 
I  am  sorry  I  forgot  to  mention  it  yesterday." 

"Who  is  coming?" 

"Captain  Levison." 

"Who?"  repeated  Lady  Isabel,  in  a  sharp  tone  of 
consternation. 

"Captain  Levison.  Sir  Peter  consents  to  see  him, 
with  a  view  to  the  settlement  of  his  liabilities,  but 
Lady  Levison  declines  to  receive  him  at  the  Park.  So 
I  offered  to  give  him  house  room  at  East  Lynne  for  a 
few  days." 

There  is  an  old  saying — the  heart  leaped  into  the 
mouth;  and  Lady  Isabel's  heart  leaped  into  hers.  She 
grew  dizzy  at  the  words;  her  senses  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  desert  her;  her  first  sensation  was  as  if  the 
dull  earth  had  opened  and  shown  her  a  way  into  Par- 
adise; her  second  was  a  lively  consciousness  that 
Francis  Levison  ought  not  to  be  suffered  to  come 
again  into  companionship  with  her. 

Mr.  Carlyle  continued  to  converse  of  the  man's 
embarrassments,  of  his  own  interview  with  Sir  Peter, 
of  Lady  Levison;  but  Isabel  was  as  one  who  heard 
not.  She  was  debating  the  question,  how  could  she 
prevent  his  coming?  "Archibald,"  she  presently  said, 
"I  do  not  wish  Francis  Levison  to  stay  at  East 
Lynne." 

"It  will  only  be  for  a  few  days;  perhaps  but  a  day 
or  two.  Sir  Peter  is  in  the  humor  to  discharge  th^ 
claims;  and  the  moment  his  resolve  is  known   the  ex- 


EAST  LYNNE  151 

captain  can  walk  on  her  Majesty's  dominions,  an 
unmolested  man;  free  to  go  where  he  will." 

"That  may  be,"  interrupted  Lady  Isabel,  in  an 
accent  of  impatience,  ''but  why  should  he  come  to  our 
house?" 

"I  proposed  it  myself.  I  had  no  idea  you  would 
dislike  his  coming.     Why  should  you?" 

"I  don't  like  Francis  Levison,"  she  murmured. 
''That  is,  I  don't  care  to  have  him  at  East  Lynne. " 

"My  dear,  I  feel  there  is  no  help  for  it  now;  he  is 
most  likely  on  his  road,  and  will  arrive  to-morrow ;  I 
cannot  turn  him  out  again,  after  my  own  voluntary 
invitation.  Had  I  known  it  would  be  disagreeable  to 
you,  I  should  not  have  proposed  it. ' ' 

"To-morrow!"  she  exclaimed,  all  of  the  words  that 
caught  her  ear;  "is  he  coming  to-morrow?" 

"Being  Sunday,  a  free  day,  he  will  be  sure  to  take 
advantage  of  it.  What  has  he  done  that  you  should 
object  to  his  coming?  You  did  not  say  in  Boulogne 
that  you  disliked  him." 

"He  has  done  nothing,"  was  her  faltering  answer, 
feeling  that  her  grounds  of  opposition  must  melt  under 
her,  one  by  one. 

"Lady  Levison  appears  to  possess  a  very  ill  opinion 
of  him,"  resumed  Mr.  Carlyle.  "She  says  she  knew 
him  in  years  gone  by.  She  mentioned  one  or  two 
things  which,  if  true,  were  bad  enough ;  but  possibly 
she  may  be  prejudiced." 

"She  is  prejudiced,"  said  Isabel.  "At  least,  so 
Francis  Levison  told  me  in  Boulogne.  There  appeared 
to  be  no  love  lost  between  them." 

"At  any  rate,  his  ill  doings  or  well  doings  cannot 
affect  us  for  the  short  period  he  is  likely  to  remain. 
You  have  taken  a  prejudice  against  him  also,  I  sup- 
pose,  Isabel." 

She  suffered  Mr.  Carlyle  to  remain  in  the  belief, 
and  sat  with  clasped  hands  and  a  despairing  spirit, 
feeling  that  fate  was  against  her.  How  could  she 
accomplish  her  task  of  forgetting  this  man,  if  he  was 
thus  to  be  thrown  into  her  home  and  her  companion- 


158  EAST  LYNNE 

ship?  Suddenly  she  turned  to  her  husband,  and  laid 
her  cheek  upon  his  shoulder. 

He  thought  she  was  tired.   He  passed  his  arm  round 
her  waist,  drew  her  face  to  a  more  comfortable  posi- 
tion, and  bent  his  own  lovingly  upon  it.     It  came  into 
her  mind  as  she  lay  there  to  tell  him  a  portion  of  the 
truth,  like  it  had  done  once  before.     It  was  a  strong 
arm  of  shelter  round  her;  a  powerful  pillar  of  protec- 
tion, him  upon  whom  she  leaned ;  why  did  she  not  con- 
fide   herself  to  him   as    trustingly  as  a  little  child? 
Simply  because  her  courage  failed.     Once,  twice,  the 
opening   words  were  upon  her  lips,  but  come   forth 
they  did  not;   and  then  the  carriage  stopped  at  East 
Lynne,  and  the  opportunity  was  over.    Oh,  how  many 
(a  time,  in  her  after  years,  did  Lady  Isabel  recall  that 
i  midnight  drive  with  her  husband  and  wish,  in  her  vain 
I  repentance,  that  she  had  opened  his  eyes  to  that  dan- 
(gerous  man! 

'"'  The  following  morning  they  were  driving  home 
from  church,  when  sounds  of  distress  were  heard,  and 
they  saw  little  Isabel  flying  toward  them  from  the 
slopes,  crying  and  sobbing  in  the  greatest  agitation. 
Mr.  Carlyle  jumped  out  and  met  the  child. 

*'Oh,  papa,  papa!  oh,  come,  pray  come!  I  think  she 
is  dead." 

He  took  the  child  in  his  arms  to  soothe  her.  "Hush, 
my  little  darling,  you  will  alarm  mamma.  Don't 
tremble  so.  Tell  me  what  it  is."  Isabel  told  her  tale. 
She  had  been  a  naughty  child,  she  freely  confessed, 
and  had  run  out  in  the  rain  for  fun  because  Joyce  told 
her  not;  she  had  run  amidst  the  wet  grass  of  the  park, 
down  the  slopes,  Joyce  after  her.  And  Joyce  had 
slipped  and  was  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  slopes  with  a 
white  face,  never  moving. 

**Take  care  of  her,  Isabel,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle,  plac- 
ing the  agitated  and  repentant  child  by  his  wife's  side. 
"She  says  Joyce  has  fallen  by  the  slopes.  No,  do  not 
come;  I  will  go  first  and  see  what  is  amiss. "  Joyce 
was  lying  just  as  she  fell,  at  the  foot  of  the  slopes.  But 
her  eyes  were  open  now,  and  if  she  had  fainted — as 


EAST  LYNNE  159 

might  be  inferred  from  the  little  girl's  words — she 
had  recovered  consciousness. 

"Oh,  master,  don't  try  to  move  me!  1  fear  my  leg 
is  broken." 

He  did,  however,  essay  gently  to  raise  her,  but  she 
screamed  with  the  pain,  and  he  found  he  must  wait  for 
assistance.  "I  trust  you  are  not  much  hurt,"  he 
kindly  said.      "How  did  it  happen?" 

"Miss  Isabel  ran  out,  sir,  in  all  the  rain  and  wet, 
and  I  went  after  her  to  bring  her  back  again.  But 
the  slopes  are  slippery,  and  down  I  went,  and  just  at 
first  I  remembered  nothing  more." 

Mr.  Carlyle  dispatched  John  and  the  pony  carriage 
back  for  Mr.  Wainwright,  and  with  the  aid  of  the  ser- 
vants, who  were  soon  up  from  church,  Joyce  was  car- 
ried in  and  laid  on  a  bed,  dressed  as  she  was. 

Little  Isabel  stole  in,  and  drew  her  mother  aside. 

"Mamma,"  she  whispered,  "there  is  a  strange  gen- 
tleman downstairs.  He  came  in  a  chaise.  He  has  got 
a  portemanteau,  and  he  is  asking  for  you  and  papa." 

Lady  Isabel  turned  sick  with  apprehension.  Was 
he  really  come?  "Who  is  it,  Isabel?"  she  said,  by  way 
of  making  some  answer;  she  guessed  but  too  well. 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  like  him,  mamma.  He  laid 
hold  of  me  and  held  me  tight,  and  there  was  an  ugly 
look  in  his  eyes."  The  stranger  was,  of  course,  Cap- 
tain Levison.  Mr.  Carlyle  went  down  to  receive  and 
entertain  him.  Lady  Isabel  did  not;  the  accident  to 
her  maid  being  put  forth  as  an  excuse. 

Mr.  Wainwright  pronounced  the  injury  to  l^e  a  sim- 
ple fracture  of  the  ankle  bone.  It  might  have  been 
much  worse,  he  observed;  but  Joyce  would  be  confined 
to  her  bed  for  three  or  four  weeks. 


160  EAST  LYNNE 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MRS.  hare's   dream 

The  next  day  rose  bright,  warm  and  cloudless,  and 
the  morning  sun  streamed  into  the  bedi-ooni  of  ^.Irs., 
Hare.  That  lady  lay  in  bed,  a  flush  on  her  delicate 
cheeks,  and  her  soft  eyes  rather  glistening,  as  if  with 
a  touch  of  fever. 

The  justice  rubbed  his  face  to  a  shiny  brilliancy, 
settled  on  his  morning  wig  and  his  dressing-gown,  and 
then  turned  to  the  bed. 

"What  will  you  have  for  breakfast?" 

"Thank  you,  Richard,  I  do  not  think  that  I  can  eat 
anything.  I  shall  be  glad  of  my  tea;  I  am  very 
thirsty." 

"All  nonsense,"  responded  the  justice,  alluding  to 
the  intimation  of  not  eating.     "Have  a  poached  egg.'* 

Mrs,  Hare  smiled  at  him  and  gently  shook  her  head. 
"You  are  very  kind,  Richard,  but  I  could  not  eat  it 
this  morning.  Would  you  please  to  throw  this  win- 
dow open  before  you  go  down?  I  should  like  to  feel 
the  air." 

"You  will  get  the  air  too  near  from  this  window," 
replied  Mr.  Justice  Hare,  opening  the  further  one. 
Had  his  wife  requested  that  further  one  to  be  opened, 
he  would  have  opened  the  other — his  own  will  and 
opinions  were  ever  paramount.  Then  he  descended. 
A  minute  or  two,  and  up  ran  Barbara,  looking  bright 
and  fair  as  the  morning,  her  pink  muslin  dress  with 
its  ribbons  and  its  open  white  lace  sleeves  as  pretty  as 
rshe  was.  She  leaned  over  to  kiss  her  mother.  Bar- 
I  bara  had  grown  more  gentle  and  tender  of  late  years; 
the  bitterness  of  her  pain  had  passed  away,  leaving  all 
that  had  been  good  in  her  love  to  mellow  and  fertilize 
her  nature.  Her  character  had  been  greatly  improved 
■by  sorrow. 


EAST  LYNNE  161 

"Mamma,  are  you  ill?  And  you  have  been  so  well 
lately;  you  went  to  bed  so  well  last  night!  Papa 
says " 

"Barbara,  dear,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Hare,  glancing 
round  the  room  with  dread,  and  speaking  in  a  deep 
whisper,  "I  have  had  one  of  those  dreadful  dreams 
again." 

"Oh,  mamma,  how  can  you?"  exclaimed  Barbara, 
starting  up  in  vexation.  "How  can  you  suffer  a  fool- 
ish dream  so  to  overcome  you  as  to  make  you  ill? 
You  have  good  sense  in  other  matters;  but  in  this  you 
seem  to  put  all  sense  away  from  you." 

"Child,  will  you  tell  me  how  I  am  to  help  it?" 
returned  Mrs.  Hare,  taking  Barbara's  hand  and  draw- 
ing her  to  her  again.  "I  do  not  give  myself  the 
dreams;  I  cannot  prevent  their  making  me  sick,  pros- 
trate and  feverish.  I  was  as  well  yesterday  as  I  could 
be;  I  went  to  bed  quite  comfortable,  in  excellent 
spirits;  I  do  not  know  that  I  had  even  once  thought  of 
poor  Richard  during  the  day.  And  yet  the  dream 
came.  There  were  no  circumstances  to  lead  to  or 
induce  it  either  in  my  thoughts  or  in  outward  facts; 
but  come  it  did.    How  can  I  help  these  things,  I  ask?" 

"And  it  is  so  long  since  you  had  one  of  these  disa- 
greeable dream.s!     Why,  how  long  is  it,  mamma?" 

"So  long,  Barbara,  that  the  dread  of  them  had  nearly 
left  me.  I  scarcely  think  I  have  had  one  since  that 
stolen  visit  of  Richard's  years  ago. " 

"Was  it  a  very  bad  dream,  mamma?" 

"Oh,  child,  yes.  I  dreamt  that  the  real  murderer 
came  to  West  Lynne  I  that  he  was  with  us  here,  and 
we " 

At  this  moment  the  bedroom  door  was  flung  open, 
and  the  face  of  the  justice,  especially  stern  and  cross 
then,  was  pushed  in.  So  startled  was  Mrs.  Hare  that 
she  shook  till  she  shook  the  pillow,  and  Barbara  sprang 
away  from  the  bed.  Surely  he  had  not  distinguished 
their  topic  of  conversation ! 

"Are  you  coming  to  make  the  breakfast  to-day  or 
not,  Barbara?     Do  you  expect  me  to  make  it?"     Bar- 

11  Lynne 


162  EAST  LYNNE 

bara  flew  after  Mr.  Hare,  poured  out  his  cofiee,  saw 
him  settled  at  his  breakfast,  with  a  plateful  of  grouse- 
pie  before  him,  and  then  returned  upstairs  with  her 
mamma's  tea  and  dry  toast. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A  VISIT 

The  dinner  hour  of  the  Hares,  when  they  were 
alone,  was  four  o'clock,  and  it  arrived  that  day  as 
usual,  and  they  sat  down  to  table.  Mrs.  Hare  was 
better  then;  the  sunshine  and  the  business  of  stirring 
life  had  in  some  measure  effaced  the  visions  of  the 
night,  and  restored  her  to  her  wonted  frame  of  mind. 
The  justice  mentioned  the  accident  to  Joyce;  they  had 
not  heard  of  it;  but  they  had  not  been  out  during  the 
day,  and  had  received  no  visitors.  Mrs.  Hare  was  full 
of  concern ;  Joyce  was  a  universal  favorite. 

The  cloth  was  removed,  the  justice  sat  but  a  little 
while  over  his  port  wine,  for  he  was  engaged  to  smoke 
an  after-dinner  pipe  with  a  brother  magistrate,  Mr. 
Justice  Herbert. 

*' Shall  you  be  home  to  tea,  papa?"  inquired  Barbara. 
"Is  it  any  business  of  yours,  young  lady?"  "Oh, 
not  in  the  least,  "answered  Miss  Barbara.  "Only,  if 
you  had  been  coming  home  to  tea,  I  suppose  we  must 
have  waited  for  you.  " 

"I  thought  you  said,  Richard,  that  you  were  going 
to  stay  the  evening  with  Mr.  Herbert,"  observed  Mrs. 
Hare. 

"So  I  am,"  responded  the  justice.  "But  Barbara 
has  a  great  liking  for  the  sound  of  her  own  tongue." 

The  justice  departed,  striding  pompously  down  the 
gravel  walk. 

Barbara  w^altzed  round  the  large  room  to  a  gleeful 
song,  as  if  she  felt  his  absence  a  relief.  Perhaps  she 
did.  "You  can  have  tea,  now,  mamma,  at  any  time 
you  please,  if  you  are  thirsty,  without  waiting  till 
seven,"  said  she. 


EAST  LYNNE  163 

**Yes,  dear.     Barbara!" 

**What,  mamma?" 

*'I  am  sorry  to  hear  of  this  calamity  which  has  fallen 
upon  Joyce.  I  should  like  to  walk  to  East  Lynne  this 
evening  and  inquire  after  her,  and  see  her,  if  I  may. 
It  would  be  but  neighborly. " 

Barbara's  heart  beat  quicker.      Hers   was  indeed  aj 
true  and  lasting  love,  one  that  defied  time  and  change,  j 
She  having  to  bury  it  wholly  within  her,  had  perhaps 
but  added  to  its  force  and  depth.     Who  could  suspect, 
under   Barbara's  sometimes  cold,   sometimes  playful 
exterior,  that  one  was  hidden  in  her  heart,  filling  up 
its  every  crevice — one  who  had  no  right  there?     The! 
intimation  that  she  might  soon  possibly  be  in  his  pres-/ 
ence  sent  every  pulse  throbbing. 

"Walk,  did  you  say,  mamma?  Should  you  do  right 
to  walk?" 

"I  feel  quite  equal  to  it.  Since  I  have  accustomed 
myself  to  take  more  exercise  I  feel  better  for  it,  and 
we  have  not  been  out  to-day.  Poor  Joyce!  What 
time  shall  we  go,  Barbara?" 

*'If  we  were  to  get  up  there  by — by  seven,  I  should 
think  their  dinner  will  be  over  then." 

"Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Hare,  with  alacrity,  who  was 
always  pleased  when  somebody  else  decided  for  her. 
"But  I  should  like  some  tea  before  we  start,  Barbara." 

Barbara  took  care  that  her  mamma  should  have  some 
tea,  and  then  they  proceeded  toward  East  Lynne.  It 
was  a  lovely  evening.  The  air  was  warm,  and  the 
humming  gnats  sported  in  it,  as  if  anxious  to  make 
the  most  of  the  waning  summer.  Mrs.  Hare  enjoyed 
it  at  first,  but  ere  she  reached  East  Lynne  she  became 
aware  that  the  walk  was  too  much  for  her.  She  did 
not  usually  venture  upon  so  long  a  one ;  and  probably 
the  fever  and  agitation  of  the  morning  had  somewhat 
impaired  her  day's  strength.  She  laid  her  hand  upon 
the  iron  gate  as  they  were  turning  into  the  park  and 
stood  stilL 

"I  did  wrong  to  come,  Barbara." 

*'Lean   on   me,    mamma.      When   you  reach   those 


164  EAST  LYxNNE 

benches,  you  can  rest  before  proceeding  to  the  house. 
It  is  very  warm,  and  that  may  have  fatigued  you." 

They  gained  the  benches,  which  were  placed  under 
some  of  the  dark  trees,  in  view  of  the  gates  and  the 
road,  but  not  of  the  house;  and  Mrs.  Hare  sat  down. 
Another  minute,  and  they  Vv-ere  surrounded.  Mr, 
Carlyle,  his  wife  and  sister,  who  were  taking  an  after- 
dinner  stroll  amidst  the  flowers  with  their  guest, 
Francis  Levison,  discerned  them  and  came  up.  The 
children,  except  the  youngest,  were  of  the  party.  Lady 
Isabel  warmly  v/elcomed  Mrs.  Hare;  she  had  become 
quite  attached  to  the  delicate  and  suffering  woman. 

"I  am  a  pretty  one,  am  I  not,  Archibald,  to  come 
inquiring  after  an  invalid,  when  I  am  so  much  an 
invalid  myself  that  I  have  to  stop  half  way!"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Hare,  as  Mr.  Carlyle  took  her  hand,  "I 
am  greatly  concerned  to  hear  of  poor  Joyce." 

"You  must  stay  the  evening,  now  you  are  here," 
cried  Lady  Isabel.  ''It  will  afford  you  a  rest,  and  tea 
will  refresh  you." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  but  we  have  taken  tea,"  said  Mrs. 
Hare. 

"That  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  take  some 
more,"  she  laughed,  "Indeed,  you  seem  too  fatigued 
to  be  anything  but  a  prisoner  with  us  for  the  next 
hour  or  two." 

"I  fear  I  am,"  answered  Mrs.  Hare. 

"Who  are  they?"  Captain  Levison  was  muttering  to 
himself,  as  he  contemplated  the  guests  from  a  distance. 
"It's  a  deuced  lovely  girl,  whoever  she  may  be.  I 
think  I'll  approach;  they  don't  look  formidable." 

He  did  approach,  and  the  introduction  was  made. 
"Captain  Levison;  Mrs.  Hare  and  Miss  Hare."  A 
few  formal  words,  and  Captain  Levison  disappeared 
again,  challenging  little  Willie  Carlyle  to  a  foot-race. 

"How  very  poorly  your  mamma  looks,"  Mr.  Carlyle 
exclaimed  to  Barbara,  when  they  were  beyond  the 
hearing  of  Mrs.  Hare,  who  was  busy  talking  with 
Lady  Isabel  and  Miss  Carlyle.  "She  has  appeared  so 
much  stronger  lately;  altogether  better." 


EAST  LYNNE  165 

**The  walk  here  has  fatigued  her;  I  feared  it  would 
be  too  long;  so  that  she  looks  unusually  pale,"  replied 
Barbara.  "But  what  do  you  think  it  is  that  has  upset 
her  again,  Mr.  Carlyle?" 

He  turned  his  inquiring  eyes  on  Barbara. 

She  explained  chat  Mrs.  Hare  had  had  one  of  her 
terrible  dreams,  in  which  the  murderer  seemed  to  be 
at  West  Lynne. 

*'Were  it  in  my  power,"  she  added,  earnestly,  "to 
do  anything  to  elucidate  the  mystery,  I  would  spare 
no  pains,  no  toil;  I  would  walk  barefoot  to  the  end  of 
the  earth  to  bring  the  truth  to  light.  If  ever  that 
Thorn  should  come  to  West  Lynne  again,  I  will  hope 
and  pray,  and  strive  to  be  able  to  bring  it  home  to  him. ' ' 

"That  Thorn  does  not  appear  in  a  hurry  again  to 
favor  West  Lynne  v/ith  him " 

Mr.  Carlyle  paused,  for  Barbara  had  hurriedly  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  arm,  with  a  warning  gesture.  In 
talking,  they  had  wandered  across  the  park  to  its 
ornamental  grounds,  and  were  now  in  a  quiet  path, 
overshadowed  on  either  side  by  a  chain  of  imitation 
rocks.  Seated  astride  on  the  summit  of  these  rocks, 
right  above  where  Mr.  Carlyle  and  Barbara  were 
standing,  was  Francis  Levison.  His  face  was  turned 
from  them,  and  he  appeared  intent  upon  a  child's 
whip,  winding  leather  round  its  handle.  Whether  he 
heard  their  footsteps  or  not,  he  did  not  turn.  They 
quickened  their  pace  and  quitted  the  walk,  bending 
their  steps  backward  toward  the  group  of  ladies. 
"Could  he  have  heard  what  we  were  saying?"  ejacu- 
lated Barbara,  below  her  breath. 

Mr.  Carlyle  looked  down  on  the  concerned,  flushed 
cheeks,  with  a  smile.  Barbara  was  evidently  per- 
turbed. But  for  a  certain  episode  of  their  lives,  some 
years  ago,  he  might  have  soothed  her.  "I  think  he 
must  have  heard  a  little,  Barbara,  unless  his  own  wits 
were  v^ool-gathering;  he  might  not  be  attending. 
What  if  he  did  hear?     It  is  of  no  consequence. " 

"I  was  speaking,  you  know,  of  Captain  Thorn — of 
his  being  the  murderer." 


166  EAST  LYNNE 

"You  were  not  speaking  of  Richard  or  his  move- 
ments, so  never  mind.  Levison  is  a  stranger  to  the 
whole;  it  is  nothing  to  him;  if  he  heard  the  name  of 
Thorn  mentioned,  or  could  even  have  distinguished 
the  subject,  it  would  bear  for  him  no  interest;  would 
go,  as  the  saying  runs,  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the 
other.     Be  at  rest,  Barbara." 

He  really  did  look  somewhat  tenderly  upon  her  as 
he  spoke — and  they  were  near  enough  to  Lady  Isabel 
for  her  to  note  the  glance.  She  need  not  have  been 
jealous;  it  bore  no  treachery  to  her.  But  she  did  note 
it;  she  had  noted  also  their  wandering  away  together, 
and  she  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  premed- 
itated— that  they  had  gone  beyond  her  sight  to  enjoy 
each  other's  society  for  a  few  stolen  moments.  Won- 
derfully attractive  looked  Barbara  that  evening,  for 
Mr.  Carlyle  or  any  one  else  to  steal  away  with.  Her 
elegant,  airy  summer  attire,  her  bright  blue  eyes,  her 
charming  features  and  her  lovely  complexion.  She 
had  untied  the  strings  to  her  pretty  white  bonnet,  and 
was  restlessly  playing  with  them,  more  in  thought 
than  nervousness. 

"Barbara,  love,  how  are  we  to  get  home?"  asked 
Mrs.  Hare.  "I  fear  I  shall  never  be  able  to  walk.  I 
wish  I  had  told  Benjamin  to  bring  the  phaeton." 

"I  can  send  to  him,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"But  it  is  too  bad  of  me,  Archibald,  to  take  you 
and  Lady  Isabel  by  storm  in  this  unceremonious  man- 
ner, and  to  give  your  servants  trouble  besides." 

"A  great  deal  too  bad,  I  think,"  returned  Mr.  Car- 
lyle, with  mock  gravity.  "As  to  the  servants,  the  one 
who  has  to  go  will  never  recover  from  the  trouble, 
depend  upon  it.  You  always  were  more  concerned  for 
others  than  for  yourself,  dear  Mrs.  Hare." 

"And  you  are  always  kind,  Archibald,  smoothing 
difficulties  for  all,  and  making  a  trouble  of  nothing. 
Ah,  Lady  Isabel,  were  I  a  young  woman,  I  should  be 
envying  you  your  good  husband.  There  are  not  many 
like  him." 

Possibly  the  sentence  reminded  Lady  Isabel  that 


EAST  LYNNE  167 

another,  who  was  young,  might  be  envying  her. 
Isabel's  cheeks  flushed  crimson.  Mr.  Carlyle  held  out 
his  strong  arm  of  help  to  Mrs.  Hare. 

"If  sufficiently  rested,  I  fancy  you  would  be  more 
comfortable  on  a  sofa  indoors.  Allow  me  to  support 
you  thither." 

"And  you  can  take  my  arm  on  the  other  side," 
cried  Miss  Carlyle,  placing  her  tall  form  by  Mrs.  Hare. 
"Between  us  both  we  will  pull  5^ou  bravely  along. 
Your  feet  need  scarcely  touch  the  ground." 

Mrs.  Hare  laughed,  but  said  she  thought  Mr.  Car- 
lyle's  arm  would  be  sufficient.  She  took  it,  and  they 
were  turning  toward  the  house,  when  her  eye  caught 
the  form  of  a  gentleman  passing  along  the  road  by  the 
park  gates. 

"Barbara,  run,"  she  hurriedly  exclaimed.  "There's 
Tom  Herbert  going  toward  our  house.  He  will  call 
in  and  tell  them  to  send  the  phaeton  if  you  ask  him." 

When  Barbara  had  given  the  order  for  the  phaeton 
she  became  conscious  of  other  footsteps,  and  moved 
her  head  hastily  round.  Two  gentlemen,  walking 
arm-in-arm,  were  close  upon  her,  in  one  of  whom  she 
recognized  "Jack,"  otherwise  Major  Herbert.  He 
stopped  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"It  is  some  years  since  we  met,  but  I  have  not  for- 
gotten the  pretty  face  of  Miss  Barbara,"  he  cried. 
"A  young  girl's  face  it  was  then,  but  it  is  a  stately 
young  lady's  now." 

Barbara  laughed.  "Your  brother  told  me  you  had 
arrived  at  West  Lynne;  but  I  did  not  know  you 
were " 

Barbara's  voice  faltered,  and  the  rushing  crimson  of 
emotion  dyed  her  face.  Whose  face  was  that,  who 
was  he  standing  opposite  to  her,  side  by  side  with 
John  Herbert?  She  had  seen  the  face  but  once,  yet 
it  had  planted  itself  upon  her  memory  in  characters  of 
fire.  Major  Herbert  continued  to  talk,  but  Barbara  for 
once  lost  her  self-possession;  she  could  not  listen;  she 
could  not  answer;  she  could  only  stare  at  that  face  as 
if  fascinated  to  the  gaze,  looking  herself  something 


168  EAST  LYNNE 

like  a  simpleton,  her  shy  blue  eyes  anxious  and  rest- 
less, and  her  lips  turning  to  an  ashy  whiteness.  A 
strange  feeling  of  wonder,  of  superstition,  was  creep- 
ing over  Barbara.  .  Was  that  man  before  her  in  sober, 
veritable  reality,  or  was  it  but  a  phantom,  called  up  in 
her  mind  by  the  associations  arising  from  her  mam- 
mas  dream,  or  by  the  conversation  held  not  many 
moments  ago  with  Mr.  Carlyle? 

Major  Herbert  may  have  deemed  that  Barbara,  who 
was  not  attending  to  him,  but  to  his  companion,  wished 
for  an  introduction,  and  he  accordingly  made  it.  ''Cap- 
tain Thorn;  Miss  Hare." 

Then  Barbara  roused  herself;  her  senses  were  par- 
tially coming  to  her,  and  she  became  alive  to  the  fact 
that  they  must  deem  her  behavior  unorthodox  for  a 
young  lady. 

"I — I — looked  at  Captain  Thorn,  for  I  thought  I 
remembered  his  face,"  she  stammered. 

"I  was  in  West  Lynne  for  a  day  or  two  some  five 
years  ago,"  he  observed. 

"Ah — yes,"  returned  Barbara.  "Are  you  going  to 
make  a  long  stay  now?" 

"We  have  several  weeks'  leave  of  absence.  Whether 
we  shall  remain  here  all  the  time,  I  cannot  say." 

Barbara  parted  from  them.  Thought  upon  thought 
crowded  upon  her  brain  as  she  flew  back  to  East 
Lynne.  She  ran  up  the  steps  to  the  hall,  gliding 
toward  a  group  v^rhich  stood  near  its  further  end — her 
mother,  Miss  Carlyle,  Mr.  Carlyle  and  little  Isabel ; 
Lady  Isabel  she  did  not  see.  Mrs,  Hare  was  then 
going  up  to  see  Joyce.  In  the  agitation  of  the 
moment,  she  stealthily  touched  Mr.  Carlyle,  and  he 
stepped  away  from  the  rest  to  spdak  to  her,  she  draw- 
ing back  toward  the  door  of  one  of  the  reception  rooms 
and  motioning  him  to  approach.  "Oh,  Archibald,  I 
must  speak  to  you  alone.  Could  you  not  come  out 
again  for  a  little  v/hile?" 

He  nodded,  and  walked  out  openly  by  her  side. 
Why  should  he  not?  What  had  he  to  conceal?  But, 
unfortunately.    Lady   Isabel,  who  had  gone  out  into 


EAST  LYNNE  169 

that  same  room  for  a  minute  and  was  coming  out 
again  to  join  Mrs.  Hare,  both  saw  Barbara's  touch 
upon  her  husband's  arm,  marked  her  agitation,  and 
heard  her  words.  She  went  to  one  of  the  hall  win- 
dows and  watched  them  saunter  toward  the  more 
private  parts  of  the  grounds;  she  saw  her  husband 
send  back  Isabel.  Never,  since  their  marriage,  had 
Lady  Isabel's  jealousy  been  excited  as  it  was  excited 
that  evening. 

"I — I — feel — 1  scarcely  know  whether  I  am  awake 
or  dreaming,"  began  Barbara,  putting  up  her  hand  to 
her  brow,  and  speaking  in  a  dreamy  tone.  "Pardon 
me  for  bringing  you  out  in  this  unceremonious 
fashion." 

"What  state  secrets  have  you  to  disclose?"  asked 
Mr.  Carlyle,  in  a  jesting  manner. 

"We  were  speaking  of  mamma's  dream.  She  said 
the  impression  it  left  upon  her  mind — that  the  murderer 
was  at  West  Lynne — was  so  vivid,  that,  in  spite  of 
common  sense,  she  could  not  persuade  herself  that  he 
was  not.     Well — just — now " 

"Barbara,  what  can  be  the  matter?"  said  Mr.  Car- 
lyle, perceiving  that  her  agitation  was  so  great  as  to 
impede  her  words. 

"I  have  just  seen  him!"  she  rejoined. 

"Seen  him!"  echoed  Mr.  Carlyle,  looking  at  her 
fixedly,  a  doubt  crossing  his  mind  whether  Barbara's 
mind  might  be  as  uncollected  as  her  manner. 

"What  were  nearly  my  last  words  to  you?  That  if 
ever  that  Thorn  did  come  to  West  Lynne  again  I 
would  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  bring  it  home  to 
him.  He  is  here,  Archibala.  When  I  went  to  the 
gates  to  speak  to  Tom  Herbert,  his  brother.  Major 
Herbert,  was  also  there,  and  with  him  Captain  Thorn. 
Bethel  also.  Do  you  wonder,  I  say,  that  I  know  not 
whether  I  am  awake  or  dreaming?  They  have  some 
weeks'  holidays,  and  are  here  to  spend  it." 

"It  is  a  singular  coincidence,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Car- 
lyle. 

''H^^  anything  been  wanting  to  convince  me  that 


170  EAST  LYNNE 

Thorn  is  the  guilty  man,  this  would  have  done  it/* 
went  on  Barbara,  in  her  excitement.  "Mamma's 
dream,  with  the  steadfast  impression  it  left  upon  her 
that  Hallijohn's  murderer  was  now  at  West  Lynne " 

In  turning  the  sharp  corner  of  the  covered  v/alk, 
they  came  in  contact  with  Captain  Levison,  who 
appeared  to  be  either  standing  or  sauntering  there, 
his  hands  underneath  his  coat-tails.  Again  Barbara 
felt  vexed,  wondering  how  much  he  had  heard,  and 
beginning  in  her  heart  to  dislike  the  man.  He 
accosted  them  familiarly,  and  appeared  as  if  he  would 
have  turned  with  them ;  but  none  could  put  down  pre- 
sumption more  effectually  than  Mr.  Carlyle,  calm  and 
gentlemanly  though  he  always  was. 

"I  will  join  you  presently.  Captain  Levison,"  he 
said,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand.  And  he  turned  back 
with  Barbara  toward  the  open  parts  of  the  park. 

*'Do  you  like  that  Captain  Levison?"  she  abruptly 
inquired,  when  they  were  beyond  hearing. 

"I  cannot  say  that  I  do,"  was  Mr.  Carlyle's  reply. 
"He  is  one  who  does  not  improve  upon  acquaintance. " 

"To  me  it  looks  as  though  he  had  placed  himself  in 
our  way  to  hear  what  we  were  saying." 
.   "No,  no,  Barbara.      What  interest  could  it  bear  for 
him?" 

Barbara  did  not  contest  the  point;  she  turned  to  the 
one  nearer  at  heart.  "What  must  be  our  course  in 
regard  to  Thorn?" 

"It  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you,"  replied  Mr.  Car- 
lyle. "I  cannot  go  up  to  the  man  and  unceremoni- 
ously accuse  him  of  being  Hallijohn's  murderer.  In 
the  first  place,  Barbara,  we  are  not  positively  sure 
that  he  is  the  same  man  spoken  of  by  Richard." 

"Oh,  Archibald,  how  can  you  doubt?  The  extraor- 
dinary fact  of  his  appearing  here  at  this  moment, 
coupled  with  mamma's  dream,  might  assure  us  of  it." 

"Not  quite,"  smiled  Mr.  Carlyle.  "All  we  can  do 
is  to  go  cautiously  to  work,  and  endeavor  to  ascerfein 
whether  he  is  the  same." 

"And  there  is  no  one  but  you  to  do  it!"  wailed  Bar- 


EAST  LYNNE  171 

bara.  **How  vain  and  foolish  are  our  boastings?  I 
said  1  would  not  cease  striving  to  bring  it  home  to 
him,  did  he  come  again  to  West  Lynne;  and  now  he  is 
here,  even  as  the  words  were  in  my  mouth,  and  what 
can  I  do?     Nothing." 

They  took  their  way  to  the  house,  for  there  was 
nothing  further  to  discuss.  Captain  Levison  had 
entered  it  before  them,  and  saw  Lady  Isabel  stand  at 
the  hall  window.  Yes,  she  was  standing  and  looking; 
brooding  over  her  fancied  wrongs. 

"Who  is  that  Miss  Hare?"  he  demanded,  in  a  cyn- 
ical tone.  "They  appear  to  have  a  pretty  good  under- 
standing together;  twice  this  evening  I  have  met  them 
in  secret  conversation." 

"Did  you  speak  to  me,  sir?"  sharply  and  haughtily 
returned  Lady  Isabel. 

"1  did  not  mean  to  offend  3^ou;  I  spoke  of  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  and  Miss  Hare,"  he  replied,  in  a  gentle  voice. 
He  knew  she  had  distinctly  heard  his  first  speech,  in 
spite  of  her  question, 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


Mr.  Carlyle  was  sitting  one  morning  in  his  private 
room  at  his  office,  when  his  head  clerk,  Mr.  Dill,  came 
in.  "A  gentleman  is  asking  to  see  you,  Mr.  Archi- 
bald." 

"I  am  too  busy  to  see  anybody  for  this  hour  to  come. 
You  know  that,  Dill." 

"So  I  told  him,  sir,  and  he  says  he  will  wait.  It  is 
that  Captain  Thorn,  who  is  staying  here  with  John 
Herbert."  Mr.  Carlyle  raised  his  eyes,  and  they 
encountered  those  of  the  old  man;  a  peculiar  expres- 
sion was  in  the  face  of  both.  Mr.  Carlyle  glanced 
down  at  the  parchment  he  was  perusing,  as  if  calculat- 
ing his  time.     Then  he  looked  up  again  and  spoke. 

"I  will  see  him,  Dill.     Send  him  in." 

The  business  leading  to  the  visit  was  quite  simple. 


172  EAST  LYNNE 

Captain  Frederick  Thorn  had  got  himself  into  some 
trouble  and  vexation  about  "a  bill" — like  too  many 
other  captains  do,  on  occasions — and  he  had  come  to 
crave  advice  of  Mr.  Carlyle. 

Mr.  Carlyle  felt  dubious  as  to  giving  it.  This  Cap- 
tain Thorn  was  a  pleasant,  attractive  man.  who  won 
much  on  acquaintance;  one  whom  Mr.  Carlyle  would 
have  been  pleased,  in  a  friendly  point  of  view,  and 
setting  professional  interests  apart,  to  help  out  of  his 
difficulties;  but  if  he  were  the  villain  they  suspected 
him  to  be,  the  man  with  crime  upon  his  hand,  then 
Mr.  Carlyle  would  have  ordered  his  office  door  held 
wide  open  for  him  to  slink  out  of  it. 

"Cannot  you  advise  me  what  my  course  ought  to 
be?"  he  inquired,  detecting  Mr.  Carlyle's  hesitation. 
'*I  could  advise  you,  certainly.  But — you  must  excuse 
my  being  plain,  Captain  Thorn — I  like  to  know  who 
my  clients  are  before  I  take  up  their  cause  or  accept 
them  as  clients." 

"Well,  how  can  I  convince  you  that  I  am  respect- 
able? I  have  served  my  country  ever  since  I  was  six- 
teen, and  my  brother  officers  have  found  no  cause  of 
complaint.  My  position  as  an  officer  and  a  gentleman 
would  be  generally  deemed  a  sufficient  guarantee. 
Inquire  of  John  Herbert.  The  Herberts,  too,  are 
friends  of  yours,  and  they  have  not  disdained  to  give 
me  house-room  amidst  their  family." 

"True,"  returned  Mr.  Carlyle,  feeling  that  he  could 
not  well  object  further;  and  also  that  all  men  should 
be  deemed  innocent  until  proved  guilty.  "At  any 
rate,  I  will  advise  you  what  must  be  done  at  present,** 
he  added,  "though  if  the  affair  must  go  on,  I  do  not 
promise  that  I  can  continue  to  act  for  you.  I  am  very 
busy  just  now." 

Captain  Thorn  explained  his  dilemma,  and  Mr.  Car- 
lyle told  him  what  to  do  in  it.  "Were  you  not  at 
West  Lynne  some  ten  years  ago?"  he  suddenly  inquired 
at  the  close  of  the  conversation.  "You  denied  it  to 
me  once  at  my  house;  but  I  concluded  from  an  obser- 
vation  that  you  let  fall,  that  you  had  been  here." 


EAST  LYNNE  173 

*'Yes,  I  was,"  replied  Captain  Thorn,  in  a  confiden- 
tial tone.  "I  don't  mind  owning  it  to  you  in  confi- 
dence, but  I  do  not  wish  it  to  get  abroad.  I  was  not 
at  West  Lynne,  but  in  its  neighborhood.  The  fact  is, 
when  I  was  a  careless  young  fellow,  I  was  stopping  a 
few  miles  from  here,  and  got  into  a  scrape,  through 
a — a — in  short,  it  was  an  affair  of  gallantry.  I  did 
not  show  out  very  well  at  the  time,  and  I  don't  care 
that  it  should  be  known  I  am  in  the  country  again." 

Mr.  Carlyle's  pulses — for  Richard  Hare's  sake — beat 
a  shade  quicker.  The  avowal  **an  affair  of  gallantry" 
was  almost  a  confirmation  of  his  suspicions.  "Yes," 
he  pointedly  said.     "The  girl  was  Afy  Hallijohn." 

"Afy — who?"  repeated  Captain  Thorn,  opening  his 
eyes,  and  fixing  them  on  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"Afy  Hallijohn." 

Captain  Thorn  continued  to  look  at  Mr.  Carlyle,  an 
amused  expression,  rather  than  any  other,  predom- 
inant on  his  features.  "You  are  mistaken,"  he 
observed.  "Afy  Hallijohn?  I  never  heard  the  name 
before  in  my  life." 

"Did  you  never  hear,  or  know  that  a  dreadful  trag- 
edy was  enacted  in  this  place  about  that  period?" 
returned  Mr.  Carlyle,  in  a  low,  meaning  tone.  "That 
Afy  Hallijohn's  father " 

"Oh,  stay,  stay,  stay,"  hastily  interrupted  Captain 
Thorn.  "I  am  telling  a  story  in  saying  I  never  heard 
the  name.  Afy  Hallijohn?  Why,  that's  the  girl  Tom 
Herbert  was  telling  me  about.  Who — what  was  it? — 
disappeared  after  her  father  was  murdered " 

"Murdered  in  his  own  cottage,  almost  in  Afy's  pres- 
ence— murdered  by — by "    Mr.  Carlyle  recollected 

himself;  he  had  spoken  more  impulsively  than  was  his 
custom.  "Hallijohn  was  my  father's  faithful  clerk 
for  many  years,"  he  more  calmly  concluded. 

"And  he  who  committed  the  murder  was  young 
Hare,  son  of  Justice  Hare,  and  brother  of  that  attract- 
ive girl,  Barbara.  Your  speaking  of  this  has  recalled 
what  they  told  me  to  my  recollection.  The  first  even- 
ing I  was  at  the   Herberts',  Justice  Hare  and  others 


■^^^  EAST  LYNNE 

"WH,l'-''.r'  "'^  reason,"  resumed  Mr.  Carlyle 
What  IS  the  reason,  then?"  "-ariyie. 

A  faint  flush  tinged  the  isrow  of  Mr   Carlvtp      "r 
know  more  than  one  who  would  be  tladto^l;  R«. 
ba«,  ;n  sp.te  of  the  murder.      Do  not  deprfcif t^e'  ^H 

reS  11$^%^^^  .}^y^^  -f  y  too  wen,. 
been  heard  of  since,  has  she?"     ^     '        ^'  ^^'  "'^^^'" 

we;;?^r;d;ri'jj,  add'j^  ^:;t  '"^i '"°-  ■'- 

all,   if  you  mean  A  y  HaHiiohn       wZ^T\^^' '~' 

heedless  and  vain  Amidst  of,,'^"^'?'"'^'  ^°'  '^^  ^^^^ 
for  occasional  tasking  f„h°e,r"v7''°  ^°'  '^"^  ''^"^'^ 
of  the  name  of^Thorn"^  Was  it^TyoSfP""^'"^" 

tha^tt^^n-ed^t^o^s^rctldtaTtT?^^^^^^  -  ^^^ 
•X^in- rwS°d^h  -  ^[3     a^  SeTto°^d^- 

honor;  I  cannot  confes^^to  f '  •^'°".'^°  ""^  ^°°  "1"^^ 
MissAfy."  ^*  '°  ''^^'"g  been  favored  by 

wh^d^ove^'^^or-lf^r  und;;st '  .'^"^.^'  ^°"  «P-k  of. 
locality?"  reCed  Mr  Carlv  ri-^"^^*-^'''''"  '^^ 
him  so  as  to  take  in  every  £e  of  tL  '  '^''  "P°" 
shade  of  the  countenance,  L  he  save   t  '''^''  ^""^ 

"I  Should  think  not,  indeed'^  ftTa^',  „„Hed  lady. 


EAST  LYNNE  175 

more's  the  pity;  young,  pretty,  vain  and  heedless,  as 
you  represent  this  Afy.  Things  went  along  smoother 
after  a  time,  and  she  and  her  husband — a  stupid  coun- 
try yeoman — became  reconciled;  but  I  have  been 
ashamed  of  the  affair  ever  since ; — doubly  ashamed  of 
it  since  I  have  grown  wiser — and  I  do  not  care  ever  to 
be  recognized  as  the  actor  in  it,  or  to  have  it  raked  up 
against  me." 

Captain  Thorn  rose,  and  took  a  somewhat  hasty 
leave.  Was  he  or  was  he  not  the  man?  Mr.  Carlyl'e 
could  not  solve  the  doubt.  Mr.  Dill  came  in  as  he 
disappeared,  closed  the  door  and  advanced  to  his  mas- 
ter, speaking  in  an  under-tone.  "Mr.  Archibald,  has 
it  struck  you  that  the  gentleman  just  gone  out  may  be 
the  Lieutenant  Thorn  you  once  spoke  to  me  about? — 
he  who  had  used  to  gallop  over  from  Swainson  to  court 
—Afy  Hallijohn?" 

"It  has  struck  me  so  most  forcibly,"  replied  Mr. 
Carlyle.  "Dill,  I  would  give  five  hundred  pounds  out 
of  my  pocket  this  moment  to  be  assured  of  the  fact — 
if  he  is  the  same." 

"I  have  seen  him  several  times  since  he  has  been 
staying  with  the  Herberts,"  pursued  the  old  gentle- 
man, "and  my  doubts  have  naturally  been  excited  as 
to  whether  it  could  be  the  man  in  question.  Curious 
enough,  Bezant,  the  doctor,  was  over  here  yesterday 
from  vSwainson;  and,  as  I  was  walking  with  him,  arm- 
in-arm,  we  met  Captain  Thorn.  The  two  recognized 
each  other  and  bowed,  but  merely  as  distant  acquaint- 
ances. *Do  you  know  that  gentleman?'  said  I  to 
Bezant.  'Yes,'  he  answered,  *it  is  Mr.  Frederick.' 
'Mr.  Frederick  with  something  added  to  it,'  said  I; 
'his  name  is  Thorn.'  'I  know  that,'  returned  Bezant; 
'but  when  he  was  in  Swainson  some  years  ago,  he 
chose  to  drop  the  Thorn,  and  the  town  in  general 
knew  him  only  as  Mr.  Frederick. '  'What  was  he 
doing  there,  Bezant?'  I  asked.  'Amusing  himself  and 
getting  into  mischief,'  was  the  answer;  'nothing  very 
bad,  only  the  random  scrapes  of  young  men. '  'Was 
he  often  on  horseback,  riding  to  a  distance ]>'  was  my 


176  EAST  LYNNE 

next  question.  'Yes,  that  he  was,'  replied  Bezant, 
*none  more  fond  of  galloping  across  the  country  than 
he;  I  used  to  tell  him  he'd  ride  his  horse's  tail  off. ' 
Now,  Mr.  Archibald,  what  do  you  think?"  concluded 
the  old  clerk;  "and  so  far  as  i  could  make  out,  this 
was  about  the  very  time  of  the  tragedy  at  Hallijoim's. " 
"Think?"  replied  Mr.  Carlyle;  '^vhat  can  I  think 
but  that  it  is  the  same  man?  I  am  convinced  of  it 
now."  And,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  he  fell  into  a 
deep  revery,  regardless  of  the  parchments  that  lay 
before  him. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   TEMPTATION 

Bright  was  the  moon  one  genial  Monday  night, 
bright  was  the  evening  star,  as  they  shone  upon  a  sol- 
itary wayfarer  who  walked  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
road,  with  his  head  down,  as  though  he  did  not  care 
to  court  observation.  A  laborer  apparently,  for  he 
wore  a  smock-frock  and  had  hobnails  in  his  shoes;  but 
his  whiskers  were  large  and  black,  quite  hiding  the 
lower  part  of  his  face,  and  his  broad-brimmed  "wide- 
awake" came  far  over  his  brows.  He  drev\^  near  the 
dwelling  of  Richard  Hare,  Esquire,  plunged  rapidly 
over  some  palings  (after  looking  well  to  the  right  and 
left)  into  a  field,  and  thence  over  the  side  wall  into 
Mr.  Hare's  garden. 

It  was  none  other  than  Richard,  and  Barbara,  ever 
on  the  lookout,  noticed  his  figure  among  the  trees,  and 
at  once  stole  out.  "Oh,  Richard,  darling,  I  may  not 
stop  and  talk  to  you!"  she  wailed,  in  a  deep  whisper. 
"Papa  is  at  home,  you  see,  of  ail  nights  in  the  world. " 

"Can't  I  see  my  mother?" 

"How  can  you?  You  must  wait  till  to-morrow 
night." 

"I  don't  like  waiting  a  second  night,  Barbara. 
There's  danger  in  every  inch  of  ground  that  this  neigh- 
borhood  contains. " 


EAST  LYNNE  177 

''But  you  must  wait,  Richard,  for  reasons.  That 
man  who  caused  all  the  mischief,  Thorn " 

''Hang  him!"  gloomily  interrupted  Richard. 

"He  is  at  West  Lynne.  At  least,  there  is  a  Thorn 
here  whom  we,  I  and  Mr.  Carlyle,  believe  to  be  the 
same,  and  we  want  you  to  see  him." 

"Let  me  see  him,"  panted  Richard,  whom  the  news 
appeared  to  agitate,  "let  me  see  him!  Barbara — I 
say " 

Barbara  had  passed  on  again,  returning  presently. 
"You  know,  Richard,  I  must  keep  moving,  with  papa's 
eyes  there.  He  is  a  tall  man,  very  good-looking,  very 
fond  of  dress  and  ornaments,  especially  of  diamonds." 

"That's  he,"  cried  Richard,  eagerly. 

"Mr.  Carlyle  will  contrive  that  you  shall  see  him," 
she  continued,  stooping  down  as  if  to  tie  her  shoes. 
"Should  it  prove  to  be  the  same,  perhaps  nothing  can 
be  immediately  done  toward  clearing  you,  but  it  will 
be  a  great  point  ascertained.  Are  you  sure  you  would 
know  him  again?" 

"Sure!  that  I  would  know  him!"  uttered  Richard 
Hare.  "Should  I  know  my  own  father?  Should  I 
know  you?  And  you  are  not  engraven  on  my  heart  in 
letters  of  blood,  as  he  is.  How  and  when  am  I  to  see 
him,  Barbara?" 

"I  can  tell  you  nothing  till  I  have  consulted  Mr. 
Carlyle.  Be  here  to-morrow  as  soon  as  ever  the  dusk 
will  permit  you;  perhaps  Mr.  Carlyle  will  contrive  to 
bring  him  here." 

There  must  be  no  delay  now,  and  the  next  day  Bar- 
bara, braving  comments,  appeared  once  more  at  the 
office  of  Mr.  Carlyle.  Terribly  did  the  rules  of  con- 
trary seem  in  action  just  then.  Mr.  Carlyle  was  not 
in,  and  the  clerks  did  not  know  when  to  expect  him. 
He  was  gone  out  for  some  hours,  they  believed. 

"Mr.  Dill,"  urged  Barbara,  as  the  old  gentleman 
came  to  the  door  to  greet  her,  "I  must  see  him." 

"He  will  not  be  in  till  late  in  the  afternoon,  :\Iiss 
Barbara.  I  expect  him  then.  Is  it  anything  I  can 
do?" 

12  Lynne 


178  EAST  LYNNE 

"No — no,"  sighed  Barbara. 

At  that  moment  Lady  Isabel  and  her  little  girl 
passed  in  the  chariot.  She  saw  Barbara  at  her  hus- 
band's door;  what  should  she  be  doing  there,  unless 
paying  him  a  visit?  A  slight,  haughty  bow  to  Bar- 
bara, a  pleasant  nod  and  a  smile  to  Mr.  Dill,  and  the 
carriage  bowled  on. 

It  was  four  o'clock  before  Barbara  could  see  Mr. 
Carlyle.  She  communicated  her  tidings,  that  Richard 
had  arrived.  Mr.  Carlyle  held  deceit  and  all  under- 
handed doings  in  especial  abhorrence;  yet  he  deemed 
that  he  was  acting  right,  under  the  circumstances,  in 
allowing  Captain  Thorn  to  be  secretly  seen  by  Richard 
Hare. 

In  haste  he  arranged  his  plans.  It  was  the  evening 
of  his  own  dinner  engagement  at  Mrs.  Jeafferson's; 
but  that  he  must  give  up.  Telling  Barbara  to  dis- 
patch Richard  to  his  office  as  soon  as  he  should  make 
his  appearance  in  the  Grove,  and  to  urge  him  to  come 
boldly,  for  that  none  would  know  him  in  his  disguise, 
he  wrote  a  hurried  note  to  Thorn,  requesting  him  also 
to  be  at  his  office  at  eight  o'clock  that  evening,  as  he 
had  something  to  communicate  to  him. 

The  latter  plea  was  no  fiction,  for  he  had  received 
an  important  communication  that  morning  relative  to 
the  business  on  which  Captain  Thorn  had  consulted 
him,  and  his  own  absence  from  the  office  had  alone 
prevented  his  sending  for  him  earlier.    " 

Other  matters  were  calling  the  attention  of  Mr.  Car- 
lyle, and  it  was  five  o'clock  ere  he  departed  for  East 
Lynne;  he  would  not  have  gone  so  early,  but  that  he 
must  inform  his  wife  of  his  inability  to  keep  the  din- 
ner engagement.  Mr.  Carlyle  was  one  who  never 
hesitated  to  sacrifice  personal  gratification  to  friend- 
ship or  to  business. 

The  chariot  was  at  the  door,  and  Lady  Isabel  was 
dressed  and  waiting  for  him  in  her  dressing-room. 
"Did  you  forget  that  the  Jeaffersons  dine  at  six?"  was 
her  greeting. 

"No,  Isabel;   but  it   was  impossible  for  me   to  get 


EAST  LYNNE  179 

liere  before.  And  I  should  not  have  come  so  soon 
but  to  tell  you  that  I  cannot  accompany  you.  You 
must  make  my  excuses  to  Mrs.  Jeafferson. " 

A  pause.  Strange  thoughts  were  running  through 
Lady  Isabel's  mind.  *'Why  so?"  she  inquired.  "Some 
business  has  arisen  which  I  am  compelled  to  attend  to 
this  evening.  As  soon  as  I  have  snatched  my  dinner  at 
home  I  must  hasten  back  to  the  office." 

Was  he  making  this  excuse  to  spend  the  hours  of  her 
absence  with  Barbara  Hare?  The  idea  that  it  was  so 
took  firm  possession  of  her  mind,  and  remained  there. 
Her  face  expressed  a  variety  of  feelings,  the  most 
prominent  that  of  resentment.      Mr.  Carlyle  saw  it. 

''You  must  not  be  vexed,  Isabel.  1  assure  you  it  is 
no  fault  of  mine.  It  is  important  private  business  that 
cannot  be  put  off,  and  which  I  cannot  delegate  to  Dill. 
I  am  sorry  it  should  so  have  happened." 

"You  never  return  to  the  office  in  an  evening,"  she 
remarked,  with  pale  lips.  "No,  because,  if  anything 
arises  to  take- us  there  after  hours,  Dill  officiates.  But 
the  business  to-night  must  be  done  by  myself." 
Another  pause.  Lady  Isabel  suddenly  broke  it. 
"Shall  you  join  us  later  in  the  evening?" 

"I  believe  1  shall  not  be  able  to  do  so." 

She  drew  her  light  shawl  round  her  shoulders,  and 
swept  down  the  staircase.  Mr.  Carlyle  followed  to 
place  her  in  the  carriage.  When  he  said  farewell  she 
never  answered,  but  looked  straight  out  before  her 
with  a  stony  look. 

"What  time,  my  lady?"  inquired  the  footman,  as 
she  alighted  at  Mrs.  Jeafferson 's. 

' '  Early.     Half-past  nine. " 

A  little  before  eight  o'clock  Richard  Hare,  in  his 
smock-frock,  his  slouching  hat,  and  his  false  whiskers, 
rang  dubiously  at  the  outer  door  of  Mr.  Carlyle's 
office.  That  gentleman  instantly  opened  it.  He  was 
quite  alone. 

"Come  in,  Richard,"  said  he,  grasping  his  hand. 
"What  has  brought  you  to  West  Lynne  again— any 
particular  object?" 


180  EAST  LYNNE 

* 'Chiefly  a  hankering  within  me  that  I  could  not  get 
rid  of,"  replied  Richard.  "It  was  not  so  much  to  see 
my  mother  and  Barbara — though  I  have  longed  to  see 
them  since  my  illness — but  a  feeling  was  within  me 
that  I  could  not  rest  away  from  it.  So  I  said  I'd  risk 
it  again,  just  for  a  day." 

"That's  lucky.  This  Captain  Thorn  will  be  here 
to-night.  You  can  go  into  the  next  room,  and  take  a 
goodlook  at  him.  And — there  he  is!"  said  Mr.  Car- 
lyle,  as  a  ring  was  heard  at  the  bell.  "Come  this  way. 
Bring  your  hat." 

"Well,  Richard,  is  it  the  same  man?"  asked  Mr. 
Carlyle,  when  he  had  completed  the  business  of  Cap- 
tain Thorn  and  shown  him  out. 

"No,  sir.     Not  in  the  least  like  him.  " 

Mr.  Carlyle  felt  a  strange  relief;  relief  for  Captain 
Thorn's  sake.  He  had  rarely  seen  one  whom  he  could 
so  little  associate  with  the  notion  of  a  murderer  as 
Captain  Thorn,  and  he  was  a  man  who  exceedingly 
won  upon  his  regard.  He  could  heartily  help  him  out 
of  his  dilemma  now. 

"Excepting  that  they  are  both  tall,  Vvdth  nearly  the 
same  colored  hair,  there  is  no  resemblance  whatever 
between  them,"  proceeded  Richard.  "Their  faces, 
their  figures,  are  as  opposite  as  light  is  from  dark. 
That  other,  in  spite  of  his  handsome  features,  has  the 
expression  at  times  of  a  demon;  but  the  expression  of 
this  one  is  the  best  part  of  his  face.  Hallijohn's  mur- 
derer had  a  curious  look  here,  sir." 

"Where?"  questioned  Mr.  Carlyle,  for  Richard  had 
only  pointed  to  his  face  generally. 

"Well — I  cannot  say  precisely  where  it  lay,  whether 
in  the  eyebrows  or  the  eye ;  I  could  not  tell  when  I  used 
to  have  him  before  me ;  but  it  was  in  one  of  them.  Ah, 
Mr.  Carlyle,  I  thought  when  Barbara  told  me  Thorn 
was  here,  it  was  too  good  news  to  be  true;  depend  on't 
he  won't  venture  to  West  Lynne  again.  This  man  is 
no  more  like  that  other  villain  than  you  are  like  him.  " 

Mr.  Carlyle  went  home  with  Richard,  and  finding 
Mr.  Hare  out,  they  both  went  in. 


EAST  LYNNE  181 

*'Yoti  have  been  very  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Hare;  "I 
don't  know  whatever  we  should  do  without  you.  And 
1  want  to  tax  your  kindness  yet  further.  Mr.  Hare  is 
not  well,  and  we  terribly  fear  he  will  be  home  early, 
in  consequence;  otherwise  we  should  have  been  quite 
safe  until  ten,  for  he  is  gone  to  the  Buck's  Head,^and 
they  never  leave,  you  know,  till  that  hour  has  struck. 
Should  he  come  in  and  see  Richard^ — the  very  thought 
sends  me  into  a  shiver.  Barbara  and  I  have  been  dis- 
cussing it  all  the  evening,  and  we  can  only  think  of 
one  plan.  It  is  that  you  will  kindly  stay  in  the  garden 
near  the  gate;  and,  should  he  come  in,  stop  him  and 
keep  him  in  conversation.  Barbara  will  be  with  you, 
and  will  run  in  with  the  warning,  and  Richard  can  go 
inside  the  closet  in  the  hall,  till  Mr  Hare  has  entered 
and  is  safe  in  his  room,  and  then  he  can  make  his 
escape.     Will  you  do  this,  Archibald?" 

"Certainly  I  will." 

"I  cannot  part  with  him  before  ten  o'clock,  unless  I 
am  obliged,"  she  whispered,  pressing  Mr.  Carlyle's 
hand  in  her  earnest  gratitude.  "You  don't  know  what 
it  is,  Archibald,  to  have  a  lost  son  home  for  an  hour 
but  once  in  seven  years.   At  ten  o'clock  we  will  part. " 

Mr.  Carlyle  and  Barbara  began  to  pace  the  path,  in 
compliance  with  the  wishes  of  Mrs.  Hare,  keeping 
near  the  entrance  gate.  When  they  were  turning  the 
second  time,  Mr.  Carlyle  offered  her  his  arm ;  it  was 
an  act  of  mere  politeness.  Barbara  took  it.  And 
there  they  waited  and  waited,  but  the  justice  did  not 
come. 

Punctually  to  the  minute,  half  after  nine,  Lady 
Isabel's  carriage  arrived  at  Mrs.  Jeafferson's,  and  she 
came  out  immediately,  a  headache  being  the  plea  for 
her  early  departure.  She  had  not  far  to  go  to  reach 
East  Lynne,  about  two  miles.  It  was  a  by-road  nearly 
all  the  way.  They  could  emerge  into  the  open  road 
if  they  pleased,  but  it  was  a  trifle  further.  Suddenly 
a  gentleman  approached  the  carriage  as  it  was  bowling 
along,  and  waved  his  hand  to  the  coachman  to  pull  up. 
In  spite  of  the  glowing  moonlight,  Lady  Isabel  did  not 


182  EAST  LYNNE 

at  first  recognize  him,  for  he  wore  a  disfignring  fur 
cap,  the  ears  of  which  were  tied  over  his  ears  and 
cheeks.  It  was  Francis  Levison.  She  put  down  the 
window. 

"I  thought  it  must  be  your  carriage.  How  early 
you  are  returning!  Were  you  tired  of  your  enter- 
tainers?" 

"Why,  he  knew  what  time  my  lady  was  returning," 
thought  John  to  himself;  "he  asked  me.  A  false  sort 
of  chap,  that,  I've  a  notion." 

"I  came  out  for  a  stroll,  and  have  tired  myself,"  he 
proceeded.  "Will  you  take  compassion  on  me  and 
give  me  a  seat  home?" 

She  acquiesced.  She  could  not  well  do  otherv/ise. 
The  footman  sprang  from  behind  to  open  the  door, 
and  Francis  Levison  took  his  place  beside  Lady  Isabel. 
"Take  the  high  road,"  he  put  out  his  head  to  say  to 
the  coachman,  and  the  man  touched  his  hat.  Which 
high  road  would  cause  them  to  pass  Mr.  Hare's. 

"I  did  not  know  you,"  she  began,  gathering  herself 
into  her  own  corner.  "What  ugly  thing  is  that  you 
have  on?     It  is  like  a  disguise. " 

He  was  taking  off  the  "ugly  thing"  as  she  spoke, 
and  began  to  twirl  it  round  on  his  hand.  "Disguise? 
Oh,  no;  I  have  no  creditors  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
borhood of  East  Lynne. " 

False  as  ever.  It  was  worn  as  a  disguise,  and  he 
knew  it. 

"Is  Mr.  Carlyle  at  home?"  she  inquired. 

"No."  Then,  after  a  pause — "I  expect  he  is  more 
agreeably  engaged." 

The  tone  brought  the  tingling  blood  to  the  cheeks 
of  Lady  Isabel.  She  wished  to  preserve  a  dignified 
silence,  and  did  so  for  a  few  moments.  But  the  jeal- 
ous question  broke  out. 

"Engaged  in  what  manner?" 

"As  I  came  by  Hare's  house  just  now,  I  saw  two 
people,  a  gentleman  and  a  young  lady,  coupled  lov- 
ingly together,  enjoying  a  tete-a-tete  by  moonlight. 
They  were  your  husband  and  Miss  Hare." 


EAST  LYNNE  183 

Lady  Isabel  almost  gnashed  her  teeth;  the  jealous 
doubts  which  had  been  tormenting  her  all  the  evening 
were  confirmed.  That  the  man  whom  she  hated — yes, 
in  her  blind  anger  she  hated  him  then — should  so 
impose  upon  her,  should  excuse  himself  by  lies,  lies 
base  and  false,  from  accompanying  her,  on  purpose  to 
pass  the  hours  with  Barbara  Hare.  Had  she  been 
alone  in  the  carriage,  a  torrent  of  passion  had  prob- 
ably escaped  her. 

She  leaned  back,  panting  in  her  emotion,  but  con- 
cealed it  from  Captain  Levison.  As  they  came  oppo- 
site to  Justice  Hare's,  she  deliberately  bent  forward 
and  scanned  the  garden  with  eager  eyes.  There,  in 
the  bright  moonlight,  all  too  bright  and  clear,  slowly 
paced,  arm  in  arm,  and  drawn  close  to  each  other,  her 
husband  and  Barbara.  With  a  choking  sob  that  could 
no  longer  be  controlled  or  hidden,  Lady  Isabel  sank 
back  again. 

He,  that  bold,  bad  man,  dared  to  put  his  arm  round 
her,  to  draw  her  to  his  side ;  to  whisper  that  his  love 
was  left  to  her,  if  another's  was  withdrawn.  She  was 
most  assuredly  out  of  her  senses  that  night,  or  she 
never  would  have  listened. 

A  jealous  woman  is  mad;  an  outraged  woman  is 
doubly  mad;  and  the  ill-fated  Lady  Isabel  truly 
believed  that  every  sacred  feeling  which  ought  to 
exist  between  man  and  wife  v/as  betrayed  by  Mr. 
Carlyle. 

"Be  avenged  on  that  false  hound,  Isabel.  He  was 
never  worthy  of  you.  Leave  your  life  of  misery,  and 
come  to  happiness." 

In  her  bitter  distress  and  wrath,  she  broke  into  a 
storm  of  sobs.  Were  they  caused  by  passion  against 
her  husband,  or  by  those  bold  and  shameless  words? 
Alas!  alas!  Francis  Levison  applied  himself  to  soothe 
her  with  all  the  sweet  and  dangerous  sophistry  of  his 
crafty  nature. 


184  EAST  LYNNE 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

GOOD-BY 

The  minutes  flew  on.  A  quarter  to  ten ;  a  quarter 
past  ten;  and  still  Richard  Hare  lingered  on  with  his 
mother,  and  still  Mr.  Carlyle  and  Barbara  paced 
patiently  the  garden  path.  At  half  past  ten  Richard 
came  forth,  having  taken  his  last  farewell.  Then 
came  Barbara's  tearful  farewell,  which  Mr.  Carlyle 
witnessed;  then  a  hard  grasp  of  that  gentleman's  hand 
and  Richard  plunged  amidst  the  trees  to  depart  the 
way  he  came. 

"Good-night,  Barbara,"  said  Mr.  Ca.Tly]e. 

"Will  you  not  come  in  and  say  good-night  to 
mamma?" 

"Not  now;  it  is  late.  Tell  her  how  glad  I  am  things 
have  gone  off  so  well." 

He  set  off  at  a  rapid  pace  toward  his  home,  and  Bar- 
bara leaned  on  the  gate  to  indulge  her  tears.  Her 
heart  was  aching  for  Richard;  it  was  aching  for  the 
disappointment  the  night  had  brought  forth  respect- 
ing Captain  Thorn.  Still  nobody  passed;  still  the 
steps  of  her  father  were  not  heard,  and  Barbara  stayed 
on.  But — what  was  that  figure,  cowering  under  the 
shade  of  the  hedge  at  a  distance,  and,  seemingly, 
watching  her?  Barbara  strained  her  eyes,  while  her 
heart  beat  as  if  it  would  burst  its  bounds.  Surely, 
surely,  it  was  her  brother!  What  had  he  ventured 
back  for? 

Richard  Hare  it  was.  When  fully  assured  that  Bar- 
bara was  standing  there,  he  knev^  the  justice  was  still 
absent,  and  ventured  to  advance.  He  appeared  to  be 
in  a  strange  state  of  emotion,  his  breath  labored,  his 
whole  frame  trembling, 

"Barbara!  Barbara!"  he  ejaculated,  "I  have  seen 
Thorn." 


EAST  LYNNE  185 

Barbara  thought  him  demented.  "I  know  you  saw 
him,"  she  slowly  said;  "but  it  was  not  the  right 
Thorn." 

''Not  he,"  breathed  Richard;  "not  the  gentleman  I 
saw  to-night  in  Carlyle's  office.  I  have  seen  the  fel- 
low himself.     Why  do  you  stare  at  me,  Barbara?" 

Barbara  was  in  truth  scanning  his  face  keenly.  It 
appeared  to  her  a  strange  tale  that  he  was  telling. 

"When  I  left  here  I  cut  across  into  Beam  lane, 
which  is  more  private  for  me  than  this  road, ' '  proceeded 
Richard.  "Just  as  I  got  to  that  clump  of  trees — you 
know  it,  Barbara — I  saw  somebody  coming  toward  me 
from  a  distance.  I  stepped  back  behind  the  trunks  of 
the  trees,  into  the  shade  of  the  hedge,  for  I  don't  care 
to  be  met,  though  I  am  disguised.  He  came  along 
the  middle  of  the  lane,  going  toward  East  Lynne,  and 
I  looked  out  upon  him.  1  knew  him  long  before  he 
was  abreast  of  me;  it  was  Thorn." 

Barbara  made  no  comment;  she  was  digesting  the 
news. 

"Every  drop  of  blood  within  me  began  to  tingle, 
and  an  impulse  came  upon  me  to  spring  upon  him  and 
accuse  him  of  the  murder  of  Hallijohn, "  went  on 
Richard,  in  the  same  excited  manner.  "But  1 
restrained  it;  or,  perhaps,  my  courage  failed.  One  of 
the  reproaches  against  me  used  to  be  that  1  was  a 
physical  coward,  you  know,  Barbara,"  he  added,  his 
tone  changing  to  bitterness.  "In  a  struggle.  Thorn 
would  have  had  the  best  of  it;  he  is  taller  and  more 
powerful  than  I,  and  might  have  battered  me  to  death, 
A  man  who  can  commit  one  murder  won't  hesitate  at 
a  second." 

"Richard,  do  you  think  you  could  have  been 
deceived?"  she  urged.  "You  had  been  talking  of 
Thorn,  and  your  thoughts  were,  naturally,  bearing 
upon  him.     Imagination " 

"Be  still,  Barbara!"  he  interrupted,  in  a  tone  of 
pain.  "Imagination,  indeed;  did  I  not  tell  you  he  was 
stamped  here?"  touching  his  breast.  "Do  you  take 
me   for  a  child,  or  an  imbecile,  that  I  should  fancy  I 


186  EAST  LYNNE 

see  Thorn  in  every  shadow,  or  meet  people  where  1  do 
not?  He  had  his  hat  off  as  if  he  had  been  walking  fast 
and  had  got  hot.  He  was  walking  fast,  and  he  carried 
the  hat  in  one  hand,  and  what  looked  like  a  small 
parcel.  With  the  other  hand  he  was  pushing  his  hair 
from  his  brow — in  this  way,  a  peculiar  way,"  added 
Richard,  slightly  lifting  his  own  hat,  and  pushing  back 
his  hair.  *'By  that  action  alone  I  should  have  known 
him,  for  he  was  always  doing  it  in  the  old  days.  And 
there  was  his  white  hand,  adorned  with  the  diamond 
ring!  Barbara,  the  diamond  glittered  in  the  moon- 
light." 

Richard's  voice  and  manner  were  singularly  earnest, 
and  a  conviction  of  the  truth  of  his  assertion  flashed 
over  his  sister.  "I  saw  his  face  as  plainly  as  I  ever 
saw  it,  every  feature;  he  is  scarcely  altered,  save  for  a 
haggardness  in  his  cheeks  now.  Barbara,  you  need 
not  doubt  me;  I  swear  it  was  Thorn."  She  grew 
excited  as  he  was;  now  that  she  believed  the  news,  it 
was  telling  upon  her;  reason  left  its  place,  and  impulse 
succeeded;  Barbara  did  not  wait  to  weigh  her  actions. 

"Richard,  Mr.  Carlyle  ought  to  know  this.  He  has 
but  just  gone;  we  may  overtake  him  if  we  try." 

Forgetting  the  strange  appearance  it  would  have,  at 
that  hour  of  the  night,  should  she  meet  any  one  who 
knew  her,  forgetting  what  the  consequences  might  be 
did  Justice  Hare  return  and  find  her  absent,  Barbara 
set  off  with  a  fleet  foot,  Richard  more  stealthily  fol- 
lowing her,  his  eyes  cast  in  all  directions.  Fortunately 
Barbara  wore  a  bonnet  and  mantle,  which  she  had  put 
on  to  pace  the  garden  with  Mr.  Carlj^le;  fortunately, 
also,  they  met  no  one.  She  succeeded  in  reaching  Mr. 
Carlyle  before  he  turned  into  East  Lynne  gates. 

''Barbara!"  he  exclaimed,  in  the  extreme  of  aston- 
ishment.    "Barbara!" 

"Archibald!  Archibald!"  she  panted,  gasping  for 
breath.  "I  am  not  out  of  my  mind;  but  do  come  and 
speak  to  Richard!     He  has  just  seen  the  real  Thorn." 

Mr.  Carlyle,  amazed  and  wondering,  turned  back. 
They  got  over  the  field  stile  nearly  opposite   the  gate, 


EAST  LYNNE  187 

drew  behind  the  hedge,  and  there  Richard  told  his  tale. 
Mr.  Carlyle  did  not  appear  to  doubt  it,  as  Barbara  had 
done;  perhaps  he  could  not,  in  the  face  of  Richard's 
agitated  and  intense  earnestness. 

"I  am  sure  there  is  no  one  named  Thorn  in  the 
neighborhood,  save  the  gentleman  you  saw  in  my  office 
to-night,  Richard,"  observed  Mr.  Carlyle,  after  some 
deliberation.     "It  is  very  strange." 

"He  may  be  staying  here  under  a  feigned  name," 
replied  Richard.  "There  can  be  no  mistake  that  it  is 
Thorn  whom  I  have  just  met." 

"How  was  he  dressed?     As  a  gentleman?" 

"Catch  him  dressing  as  anything  else,"  returned 
Richard.  "He  v/as  in  an  evening  suit  of  black,  with 
a  sort  of  thin  overcoat  thrown  on,  but  it  was  flung 
back  at  the  shoulders,  and  I  distinctly  saw  his  clothes. 
A  gray  alpaca  it  looked  like.  As  I  have  told  Barbara, 
I  should  have  known  him  by  this  action  of  the  hand," 
imitating  it,  "as  he  pushed  his  hair  off  his  forehead; 
it  was  the  delicate  white  hand  of  the  days  gone  by, 
Mr.  Carlyle;  it  was  the  flashing  diamond  ring.  " 

Mr.  Carlyle  was  silent;  Barbara  also;  but  the 
thoughts  of  both  were  busy.  "Richard,"  observed  the 
former,  "I  should  advise  you  to  remain  a  day  or  two  in 
the  neighborhood  and  look  out  for  this  man."|  You  may 
see  him  again,  and  may  track  him  home;  it  is  very 
desirable  to  find  out  who  he  really  is,  if  practicable." 

"But  the  danger?"  urged  Richard. 

"Your  fears  magnify  that.  I  am  quite  certain  that 
nobody  would  know  you  in  broad  daylight,  disguised 
as  you  are  now.  So  many  years  have  flown  since  that 
people  have  forgotten  to  think  about  you,  Richard." 

But  Richard  could  not  be  persuaded;  he  w^s  full  of 
fears.  He  described  the  man  as  accurately  as  he  could 
to  Mr.  Carlyle  and  Barbara,  and  told  them  they  must 
look  out.  With  some  trouble,  Mr.  Carlyle  got  from 
him  an  address  in  London  to  which  he  might  write,  in 
case  anything  turned  up,  and  Richard's  presence 
should  be  necessary.  He  then  once  more  said  fare- 
well, and  quitted  them,  his  way  lying  past^East  Lynne. 


188  EAST  LYNNE 

"And  now  to  see  you  back,  Barbara,"  said  Mr. 
Carlyle. 

"Indeed,  you  shall  not  do  it,  late  as  it  is,  and  tired 
as  you  must  be.  I  came  here  alone;  Richard  did  not 
keep  near  me. " 

"I  cannot  help  your  having  come  here  alone,  but 
you  may  rely  upon  it  I  do  not  suffer  you  to  go  back  so. 
Nonsense,  Barbara!  Allow  you  to  go  along  the  high 
road  by  yourself  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night!  What  are 
you  thinking  of?" 

He  gave  Barbara  his  arm,  and  they  pursued  their 
way.  '  *  How  late  Lady  Isabel  will  think  you ! ' '  observed 
Barbara. 

"I  do  not  know  that  Lady  Isabel  has  returned  home 
3^et.  M}''  being  late  once  in  a  way  is  of  no  conse- 
quence. " 

Not  another  word  was  spoken,  save  by  Barbara. 
"Whatever  excuse  can  I  make,  should  papa  be  come 
home?"  Both  were  buried  in  their  own  reflections. 
"Thank  you  very  greatly,"  she  said,  as  they  reached 
the  gate,  and  Mr.  Carlyle  finally  turned  away,  Bar- 
bara stole  in,  and  found  the  coast  clear.  Her  papa  had 
not  arrived. 

Lady  Isabel  was  in  her  dressing-room  when  Mr. 
Carlyle  entered;  she  was  seated  at  a  table,  writing.  A 
few  questions  as  to  her  evening's  visit,  which  she 
answered  in  the  briefest  manner  possible,  and  tlien 
he  asked  her  if  she  was  not  going  to  bed. 

"By-and-by.     1  am  not  sleepy." 

"I  must  go  at  once,  Isabel,  for  I  am  dead  tired." 

"You  can  go,"  was  her  answer. 

He  bent  down  to  kiss  her,  but  she  dexterously  turned 
her  face  away.  He  supposed  she  felt  hurt  that  he  had 
not  gone  with  her  to  the  party,  and  placed  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder  with  a  smile.  "You  foolish  child,  to 
be  aggrieved  at  that.  It  was  no  fault  of  mine,  Isabel; 
I  could  not  help  myself.  I  will  talk  to  you  in  the 
morning;  I  am  too  tired  to-night.  I  suppose  you  will 
not  be  long?" 

Her  head  was  bent  over  her  writing  again,  and  she 


EAST  LYNNE  189 

made  no  reply.  Mr.  Carlyle  went  into  the  bedroom 
and  shut  the  door.  Some  time  after,  Lady  Isabel  went 
softly  upstairs  to  Joyce's  room.  Joyce,  in  her  first 
sleep,  was  suddenly  aroused  from  it.  There  stood  her 
mistress,  a  wax  light  in  her  hand.  Joyce  rubbed  her 
eyes  and  collected  her  senses,  and  finally  sat  up  in 
bed. 

"My  lady,  are  you  ill?" 

"111?  Yes;  ill  and  wretched,"  answered  Lady 
Isabel;  and  ill  she  looked,  for  she  was  perfectly  white. 
"Joyce,  I  want  a  promise  from  you.  If  anything 
should  happen  to  me,  stay  at  East  Lynne  with  my  chil- 
dren." 

Joyce  stared  in  amazement,  too  astonished  to  make 
any  reply. 

"Joyce,  you  promised  it  once  before;  promise  it 
again.  Whatever  betide,  you  will  stay  with  my  children 
when  I  am.  gone?" 

"I  will  stay  with  them.  But  oh,  my  lady,  what  can 
be  the  matter  with  you?    Are  you  taken  suddenly  ill?" 

"Good-by,  Joyce,"  murmured  Lady  Isabel,  gliding 
from  the  chamber  as  softly  as  she  had  entered  it.  And 
Joyce,  after  an  hour  of  perplexity,  dropped  asleep 
again. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

NEVER   TO   BE   REDEEMED 

Joyce  was  not  the  only  one  whose  rest  was  disturbed 
that  eventful  night.  Mr.  Carlyle  himself  awoke,  and 
to  his  surprise  found  that  his  wife  had  not  come  to 
bed.  He  wondered  what  the  time  was,  and  struck  his 
repeater.     A  quarter  past  three ! 

Rising,  he  made  his  way  to  the  door  of  his  wife's 
dressing-room.  It  was  in  darkness,  and,  so  far  as  he 
could  judge  by  absence  of  sound,  unoccupied. 

"Isabel." 

No  reply.  Nothing  but  the  echo  of  his  own  voice  in 
the  silence,  of   the   night.        He  struck  a  match   and 


190  EAST  LYNNE 

lighted  a  taper,  partially  dressed  himself,  and  went  out 
to  look  for  her.  He  feared  she  might  have  been  taken 
ill,  or  else  that  she  had  fallen  asleep  in  one  of  the 
rooms.  But  nowhere  could  he  find  her,  and,  feeling 
perplexed,  proceeded  to  his  sister's  chamber-door,  and 
knocked. 

Miss  Carlyle  was  a  light  sleeper,  and  rose  up  in  bed 
at  once.  '* Who's  that?"  called  out  she.  ''It  is  only 
I,  Cornelia,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"You!"  ejaculated  Miss  Corny.  "What  in  the  name 
of  fortune  do  you  want?     You  can  come  in. " 

Mr.  Carlyle  opened  the  door,  and  met  the  keen  eyes 
of  his  sister,  bent  on  him  from  the  bed.  Her  head 
was  surmounted  by  a  remarkable  nightcap,  at  least  a 
foot  high. 

"Is  anybody  ill?"  she  demanded. 

"I  think  Isabel  must  be.     I  cannot  find  her." 

"Not  find  her!"  echoed  Miss  Corny.  "Why,  what's 
the  time?     Is  she  not  in  bed?" 

"It  is  three  o'clock.  She  has  not  been  to  bed.  I 
cannot  find  her  in  the  sitting-room,  neither  is  she  in 
the  children's  room." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Archibald;  she's  gone 
worrying  after  Joyce.  Perhaps  the  girl  may  be  in 
pain  to-night." 

Mr.  Carlyle  was  in  full  retreat  tow^ard  Joyce's  room, 
at  this  suggestion,  when  his  sister  called  to  him. 

"If  anything  is  amiss  with  Joyce,  you  come  and  tell 
me,  Archibald,  for  I  shall  get  up  and  see  after  her. 
The  girl  was  my  servant  before  she  was  your  wife's." 

He  reached  Joyce's  room,  and  softly  unlatched  the 
door,  fully  expecting  to  find  a  light  there,  and  his  wife 
sitting  by  the  bedside.  There  was  no  light,  however, 
save  that  which  came  from  the  taper  he  held,  and  he 
saw  no  signs  of  his  wife.  Where  was  she?  Was  it 
probable  that  Joyce  could  tell  him?  He  stepped  inside 
the  room  and  called  to  her. 

Joyce  started  up  in  a  fright,  which  changed  to  aston- 
ishment when  she  recognized  her  master.  He  inquired 
whether  Lady  Isabel   had   been   there,  and  for  a  few 


EAST  LYNNE  191 

moments  Joyce  did  not  answer.  She  had  been  dream- 
ing of  Lady  Isabel,  and  could  not  at  first  detach  the 
dream  from  the  visit  which  had  probably  given  rise 
to  it. 

"What  did  yon  say,  sir?     Is  my  lady  worse?" 

"I  ask  if  she  has  been  here.     I  cannot  find  her." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Joyce,  now  fully  aroused.  "She 
came  here  and  woke  me.  That  was  just  before 
twelve,  for  I  heard  the  clock  strike.  She  did  not  stay 
here  a  minute,  sir." 

"Woke  you!"  repeated  Mr.  Carlyle.  "What  did 
she  want?     What  did  she  come  here  for?** 

Thoughts  are  quick;  imagination  is  quicker;  and 
Joyce  was  giving  the  reins  to  both.  Her  mistress' 
gloomy  and  ambiguous  words  were  crowding  on  her 
brain.  Three  o'clock!  and  she  had  not  been  in  bed, 
and  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  house !  A  nameless 
horror  struggled  to  Joyce's  face,  her  eyes  dilating  with 
it ;  she  seized  and  threw  on  a  large  flannel  gown  which 
lay  on  a  chair  by  the  bed,  and  forgetful  of  her  master 
who  stood  there,  out  she  sprang  to  the  floor.  All 
minor  considerations  faded  to  insignificance  beside  the 
terrible  dread  which  had  taken  possession  of  her. 
Clasping  the  flannel  gown  tight  round  her  with  one 
hand,  she  laid  the  other  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"Oh,  master!  oh,  master!  she  has  destroyed  herself! 
I  see  it  all  now." 

"Joyce!"  sternly  interrupted  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"She  has  destroyed  herself,  as  true  as  that  we  two 
are  living  here!"  persisted  Joyce,  her  own  face  livid 
with  emotion.  "I  can  understand  her  words  now;  1 
could  not  before.  She  came  here — and  her  face  was 
like  a  corpse  as  the  light  fell  upon  it — saying  she  had 
come  to  get  a  promise  from  me  to  stay  with  her  chil- 
dren when  she  was  gone.  I  asked  whether  she  was 
ill,  and  she  answered,  'Yes,  ill  and  wretched,'  Oh, 
sir,  may  Heaven  support  you  under  this  dreadful  trial !" 

Mr.  Carlyle  felt  bewildered;  perplexed.  Not  a  syl- 
lable did  he  believe.  He  was  not  angry  with  Joyce, 
for  he  thought  she  had  lost  her  reason. 


192  EAST  LYNNE 

"It  is  so,  sir,  incredible  as  yon  may  deem  my 
words,"  pursued  Joyce,  wringing  her  hands.  "My 
lady  has  been  miserably  unhappy;  and  that  has  driven 
her  to  it." 

"Joyce,  are  you  in  your  senses  or  out  of  them?" 
demanded  Mr.  Carlyle,  a  certain  sternness  in  his  tone. 
"Your  lady  miserably  unhappy!  What  do  you  mean 
by  such  an  assertion?" 

Before  Joyce  could  answer,  an  addition  was  received 
to  the  company  in  the  person  of  Miss  Carlyle,  who 
appeared  in  black  stockings  and  a  shawl,  and  the  lofty 
nightcap.  Hearing  voices  in  Joyce's  room,  which  was 
above  her  own,  and  full  of  curiosity,  she  ascended, 
not  choosing  to  be  shut  out  from  the  conference. 

"Whatever's  up?"  cried  she.  "Is  Lady  Isabel 
found?" 

"She  is  not  found,  and  she  never  will  be  found  but 
in  her  winding-sheet,"  returned  Joyce,  whose  lament- 
able and  unusual  state  of  excitement  completely  over- 
powered her  customary  quiet  respect  and  plain  good- 
sense.  "And,  ma'am,  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come 
up;  for  what  I  was  about  to  say  to  my  master  I  would 
prefer  to  say  in  your  presence.  When  my  lady  is 
brought  into  this  house,  and  laid  down  before  us,  dead, 
what  will  your  feelings  be?  My  master  has  done  his 
duty  by  her  in  love°  but  you — you  have  made  her  life 
a  misery.     Yes,  ma'am,  you  have." 

"Highty-tighty:"  uttered  Miss  Carlyle,  staring  at 
Joyce,  in  consternation.  "What  is  all  this?  Where's 
my  lady?" 

"She  has  gone  and  taken  the  life  that  was  not  hers 
to  take,"  sobbed  Joyce,  "and  1  say  she  has  been  driven 
to  it.  She  has  not  been  allowed  to  indulge  a  will  of  her 
own,  poor  thing,  since  she  came  to  East  Lynne;  in  her 
own  house  she  has  been  less  free  than  any  one  of  her 
servants.  You  liave  curbed  her,  ma'am,  and  snapped 
at  her,  and  made  her  feel  that  she  was  but  a  slave  to 
your  caprices  and  temper.  All  these  years  she  has 
been  crossed  and  put  upon;  everything,  in  short,  but 
beaten — ma'am,  you  know  she  has;  and  she  has  borne 


EAST  LYNNE  I93 

it  all  in  silence,  like  a  patient  angel,  never,  as  I 
believe,  complaining  to  master.  He  can  say  whether 
she  has  or  not.  We  all  loved  her,  we  felt  for  her;  and 
my  master's  heart  would  have  bled,  had  he  suspected 
what  she  had  to  put  up  with  day  after  day  and  year 
after  year." 

Miss  Carlyle's  tongue  was  glued  to  her  mouth.  Her 
brother,  confounded  at  the  rapid  words,  could  scarcely 
gather  in  their  sense.  "What  is  it  that  you  are  saying, 
Joyce?"  he  asked  in  a  low  tone.   "1  do  not  understand." 

"I  have  longed  to  say  it  to  you  many  a  hundred 
times,  sir,  but  it  is  right  that  you  should  hear  it,  now 
things  have  come  to  this  dreadful  ending.  Since  the 
very  night  Lady  Isabel  came  home  here,  your  wife, 
she  has  been  taunted  with  the  cost  she  has  brought  to 
East  Lynne  and  to  you.  If  she  wanted  but  the  simplest 
thing,  she  was  forbidden  to  have  it,  and  told  that  she 
was  bringing  her  husband  to  poverty.  For  this  very 
dinner  party  that  she  went  to  to-night,  she  wished  for 
a  new  dress,  and  your  cruel  words,  ma'am,  forbade 
her  having  it.  She  ordered  a  new  frock  for  Miss 
Isabel,  and  you  countermanded  it.  You  have  told  her 
that  master  worked  like  a  dog  to  support  her  extrav- 
agances, when  you  know  that  she  never  was  extrav- 
agant; that  none  were  less  inclined  to  go  beyond 
proper  limits  than  she.  I  have  seen  her,  ma'am,  come 
away  from  your  reproaches  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes, 
and  her  hands  meekly  clasped  upon  her  bosom,  as 
though  life  was  heavy  to  bear.  A  gentle-spirited, 
high-born  lady,  as  she  was,  could  not  fail  to  be  driven 
to  desperation;  and  I  know  that  she  has  been." 

Mr.  Carlyle  turned  to  his  sister.  "Can  this  be 
true?"  he  inquired,  in  a  tone  of  deep  agitation. 

She  did  not  answer.  Whether  it  was  the  shade  cast 
by  the  nightcap  or  the  reflection  of  the  wax  taper,  her 
face  looked  of  a  green  cast ;  and  for  the  first  time  prob- 
ably in  Miss  Carlyle's  life,  her  words  failed. 

"May  God  forgive  you,  Cornelia!"  he  murmured,  as 
he  went  out  of  the  chamber 

He  descended  to  his  own.     That  his  wife  had  lau] 


194  EAST  LYNNE 

violent  hands  upon  herself,  his  reason  utterly  repudi- 
ated; she  was  one  of  the  least  likely  to  commit  so 
great  a  sin.  He  believed  that,  in  her  happiness,  she 
might  have  wandered  out  in  the  grounds,  and  was 
lingering  there.  By  this  time  the  house  was  aroused 
and  the  servants  were  astir.  Joyce — surely  a  super- 
natural strength  was  given  her,  for,  though  she  had 
been  able  to  put  her  foot  on  the  ground,  she  had  not 
yet  walked  upon  it — crept  downstairs,  and  went  into 
Lady  Isabel's  dressing-room.  Mr.  Carlyle  was  hastily 
assuming  the  articles  of  attire  he  had  not  yet  put  on, 
to  go  out  and  search  the  grounds,  when  Joyce  limped 
in,  holding  out  a  note.  Joyce  did  not  stand  on  cere- 
mony that  night. 

"I  found  this  in  the  dressing-glass  drawer,  sir.  It 
is  my  lady's  writing."  He  took  it  in  his  hand  and 
looked  at  the  address:  '* Archibald  Carlyle."  Though 
a  calm  man,  one  who  had  his  emotions  under  his  own 
control,  he  was  no  stoic,  and  his  fingers  shook  as  he 
broke  the  seal.  "When  years  go  on,  and  my  children 
ask  where  their  mother  is  and  w^hy  she  left  them,  tell 
them  that  you,  their  father,  goaded  her  to  it.  If  they 
inquire  what  she  is,  tell  them  also,  if  you  so  will;  but 
tell  them,  at  the  same  time,  that  you  outraged  and 
betrayed  her — driving  her  to  the  very  depth  of  desper- 
ation— ere  she  quitted  them  in  her  despair." 

The  handwriting,  his  wife's,  swam  before  the  eyes 
of  Mr.  Carlyle.  All,  save  the  disgraceful  fact  that 
she  had  flown — and  a  horrible  suspicion  began  to  dawn 
upon  him  with  whom — was  totally  incom.prehensible. 
How  had  he  outraged  her.-*  In  what  manner  had  he 
goaded  her  to  it?  The  discomforts  alluded  to  by  Joyce, 
as  the  work  of  his  sister,  had  evidently  no  part  in  this; 
yet,  what  had  he  done?  He  read  the  letter,  again 
more  slowly.  No,  he  could  not  comprehend  it;  he 
had  not  the  clew. 

At  that  moment  the  voices  of  the  servants  in  the 
corridor  outside  penetrated  to  his  ears.  Of  course  they 
were  peering  about,  and  making  their  own  comments, 
Wilson,  with  her  long  tongue,  the  busiest.   They  were 


EAST  LYNNE  196 

saying  that  Captain  Levison  was  not  in  his  room ;  that 
his  bed  had  not  been  slept  in. 

Joyce  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair — she  could  not 
stand — watching  her  master  with  a  blanched  face. 
iSTever  had  she  seen  him  betray  agitation  so  powerful. 
Not  the  faintest  suspicion  of  the  dreadful  truth  had 
yet  dawned  upon  her.  He  walked  to  the  door,  the 
open  note  in  his  hand,  then  turned,  and  wavered,  and 
stood  still — as  if  he  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing. 
Probably  he  did  not.  Then  he  took  out  his  pocketbook, 
put  the  note  inside  it,  and  returned  it  to  his  pocket, 
his  hands  trembling  equally  with  his  livid  lips. 

"You  need  not  mention  this,"  he  said  to  Joyce, 
indicating  the  note.     *'It  concerns  myself  alone." 

"Sir,  does  it  say  she's  dead?" 

' '  She  is  not  dead, ' '  he  answered.  '  *  Worse  than  that, ' ' 
he  added  in  his  heart. 

"Why — who  is  this?"  uttered  Joyce. 

It  was  little  Isabel,  stealing  in  with  a  frightened 
face,  in  her  white  nightgown.  The  commotion  had 
aroused  her. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked.  "Where's 
mamma?" 

"Child,  you'll  catch  j^our  death  of  cold,"  said  Joyce. 
"Go  back  to  bed." 

"But  I  want  mamma." 

"In  the  morning,  dear,"  evasively  returned  Joyce. 
"Sir,  please,  must  not  Miss  Isabel  go  back  to  bed?" 

Mr.  Carlyle  made  no  reply  to  the  question;  most 
likely  he  never  heard  its  import.  But  he  touched 
Isabel's  shoulder  to  draw  Joyce's  attention  to  the  child. 

"Joyce — Miss  Lucy,  in  future." 

He  left  the  room,  and  Joj^ce  remained  silent  from 
amazement.  She  heard  him  go  out  at  the  hall  door 
and  bang  it  after  him.  Isabel — nay,  we  must  say 
"Lucy"  also,  went  and  stood  outside  the  chamber 
door:  the  servants,  gathered  in  a  group  near,  did  not 
observe  her.  Presently  she  came  running  bp^k.  and 
disturbed  Joyce  from  her  revery. 

"Joyce,  is  it  true?" 


196  EAST  LYNNE 

"Is  what  true,  my  dear?" 

"They  are  saying  that  Captain  Levison  has  taken 
away  mamma. " 

Joyce  fell  back  in  her  chair,  with  a  scream.  It 
changed  to  a  long,  low  moan  of  anguish. 

"What  has  he  taken  her  for? — to  kill  her?  I  thought 
it  was  only  kidnappers  who  took  people." 

"Child,  child,  go  to  bed!" 

"Oh,  Joyce,  I  want  mamma!  When  will  she  come 
back?" 

Joyce  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  to  conceal  its  emo- 
tion from  the  motherless  child.  And  just  then  Miss 
Carlyle  entered  on  tiptoe  and  humbly  sat  down  on  a 
low  chair,  her  green  face — green  that  night — in  its 
grief,  its  remorse,  and.  its  horror,  looking  nearly  as 
dark  as  her  stockings. 

She  broke  out  in  a  subdued  wail. 

"God  be  merciful  to  this  dishonored  house!" 

Mr.  Justice  Hare  turned  into  his  gate  between 
twelve  and  one;  turned  in  with  a  jaunty  air;  for  the 
justice  was  in  spirits,  he  having  won  nine  sixpences, 
and  his  friend's  tap  of  ale  having  been  usually  good. 
When  he  reached  his  bedroom  he  told  Mrs.  Hare  of  a 
chaise  and  four  which  had  gone  tearing  past  at  a  furi- 
ous pace  as  he  was  closing  the  gate,  coming  from  the 
direction  of  East  Lynne.  He  wondered  where  it  could 
be  going  at  the  midnight  hour,  and  whom  it  contained. 


CHAPTER  XXZ 

TERRIBLE   RESULTS 

Nearly  a  year  went  by. 

Lady  Isabel  Carlyle  had  spent  it  on  the  Continent — 
t«at  refuge  for  such  fugitives — now  removing  about 
from  place  to  place  with  her  companion,  now  station- 
ary and  alone.  Half  the  time — taking  one  absence 
with  another— he  had  been  away  from  her,  chiefly  in 
Paris,  pursuing  his  own  course  and  his  own  pleasure. 
How  fared  it  with  Ladv  Isabel?      Just  as  it  must   be 


EAST  LYNNE  197 

expected  to  fare,  and  does  fare,  when  a  high-princi- 
pled gentlewoman  falls  from  her  pedestal.  Never  had 
she  experienced  a  moment's  calm,  or  peace,  or  happi- 
ness, since  the  fatal  night  of  quitting  her  home.  She 
had  taken  a  blind  leap  in  a  moment  of  wild  passion, 
when,  instead  of  the  garden  of  roses  it  had  been  her 
persuader's  pleasure  to  promise  her  (but  which,  in 
truth,  she  had  barely  glanced  at,  for  that  had  not  been 
her  moving  motive),  she  had  found  herself  plunged 
into  an  abyss  of  horror,  from  which  there  was  never 
more  any  escape ;  never  more,  never  more.  The  very 
hour  of  her  departure  she  awoke  to  what  she  had  done. 
The  guilt,  whose  aspect  had  been  shunned  in  the  pros- 
pective, assumed  at  once  its  true,  frightful  color,  the 
blackness  of  darkness;  and  a  lively  remorse,  a  never- 
dying  anguish,  took  possession  of  her  soul  forever. 
Oh,  reader,  believe  me!  Lady — wife — mother!  should 
you  ever  be  tempted  to  abandon  j^our  home,  so  will 
you  awake.  Whatever  trials  may  be  the  lot  of  your 
married  life,  though  they  may  magnify  themselves  to 
your  crushed  spirits  as  beyond  the  endurance  of 
woman  to  bear,  resolve  to  bear  them;  fall  down  upon 
your  knees  and  pray  to  be  enabled  to  bear  them ;  pray 
for  patience  ;  pray  for  strength  to  resist  the  demon  that 
would  urge  you  to  escape;  bear  unto  death,  rather 
than  forfeit  your  fair  name  and  your  good  conscience ; 
for  be  assured  that  the  alternative,  if  you  rush  on  to  it, 
will  be  found  far  worse  than  death. 

Nearly  a  year  went  by,  save  some  six  or  eight  weeks; 
when,  one  morning  in  July,  Lady  Isabel  made  her 
appearance  in  the  breakfast-room.  They  were  stay- 
ing nov/  at  Grenoble.  Taking  that  town  on  their  way 
from  Switzerland,  through  Savoy,  it  had  been  Captain 
Levison's  pleasure  to  halt  in  it.  He  engaged  apart- 
ments, furnished,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Place  Gren- 
nette ;  it  was  a  windy  old  house,  full  of  doors  and  win- 
dows, chimneys  and  cupboards,  and  he  said  he  should 
remain  there.  Lady  Isabel  remonstrated;  she  wished 
to  go  further  on,  where  they  might  get  quicker  news 
from  England,  but  her  will  now  was  as  nothing.     She 


198  EAST  LYNNE 

was  looking  like  the  ghost  of  her  former  self.  Talk 
of  her  having  looked  ill  when  she  took  that  voyage 
over  the  water  with  Mr.  Carlyle — you  should  have 
seen  her  now ;  misery  marks  the  countenance  worse 
than  sickness.  Her  face  was  white  and  worn,  her 
hands  were  thin,  her  eyes  were  sunken  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  dark  circle ;  care  was  digging  caves  tor 
them.  A  stranger  might  have  attributed  these  signs 
to  her  state  of  health ;  she  knew  they  were  the  effects 
of  her  wretched  mind  and  heart. 

It  was  very  late  for  breakfast ;  but  why  should  she 
rise  early,  only  to  drag  through  another  endless  day? 
Languidly  she  took  her  seat  at  the  table,  just  as  Cap- 
tain Levison's  servant,  a  Frenchman,  whom  he  had 
engaged  in  Paris,  entered  the  room  with  two  letters. 

^' Point  de  gazette^  Pierre?"  she  asked. 

' '  Non,  miladi. ' ' 

And  all  the  while  the  sly  fox  had  got  the  Times  in 
his  coat  pocket.  But  he  was  only  obeying  the  orders 
of  his  master.  It  had  been  Captain  Levison's  recent 
pleasure  that  the  newspapers  should  not  be  seen  by 
Lady  Isabel  until  he  had  overlooked  them.  You  will 
speedily  gather  his  motive. 

Pierre  departed  toward  Captain  Levison's  room,  and 
Lady  Isabel  took  up  the  letters  and  examined  their 
superscriptions  with  interest.  It  was  known  to  her 
that  Mr.  Carlyle  had  not  lost  a  moment  in  seeking  a 
divorce,  and  the  announcement  that  it  was  granted 
was  now  daily  expected.  She  was  anxious  for  it;  anx- 
ious that  Captain  Levison  should  render  her  the  only 
reparation  in  his  power,  before  the  birth  of  her  child ; 
she  little  knew  that  there  was  not  the  least  intention 
on  his  part  to  make  her  reparation — any  more  than  he 
had  made  it  to  others  who  had  gone  before  her.  She 
had  become  painfully  aware  of  the  fact  that  the  man 
for  whom  she  had  sacrificed  herself  was  bad;  but  she 
had  not  learnt  all  his  badness  yet. 

Captain  Levison,  unwashed,  tmshaven,  with  a  dress- 
ing-gown loosely  flung  on,  lounged  in  to  breakfast; 
the  decked-out  dandies  before  the  world  are  frequently 


EAST  LYNNE  199 

the  greatest  slovens  in  domestic  privacy.  He  wished 
her  good-morning  in  a  careless  tone  of  apathy,  and 
she  as  apathetically  answered  to  it. 

*' Pierre  says  there  are  some  letters,"  he  began. 
"What  a  precious  hot  day  it  is!" 

'*Two, "  was  her  short  reply,  her  tone  sullen  as  his. 
For  if  you  think,  my  good  reader,  that  the  flattering 
words,  the  ardent  expressions  which  usually  attended 
the  beginning  of  these  promising  unions  last  out  a 
whole  ten  months,  you  are  in  egregious  error.  Com- 
pliments, the  very  opposite  to  honey  and  sweetness, 
have  generally  supervened  long  before.  Try  it,  if 
you  don't  believe  me. 

"Two  letters,"  she  continued,  "and  they  are  both 
in  the  same  handwriting;  your  solicitor's,  I  believe." 

Up  went  his  head  at  the  last  word,  and  he  made  a 
snatch  at  the  letters;  stalked  to  the  farthest  window, 
opened  one,  and  glanced  over  its  contents. 

"Sir: — We  beg  to  inform  you  that  the  suit,  Carlyle 
V.  Carlyle,  is  at  an  end;  the  divorce  was  pronounced 
without  opposition.  According  to  your  request,  we 
hasten  to  forward  you  the  earliest  information  of  the 
fact.  "We  are,  sir,  faithfully  yours, 

"Moss  &  Grab. 

"F.  Levison,  Esq." 

It  was  over,  then.  And  all  claim  to  the  name  of 
Carlyle  was  declared  to  have  been  forfeited  by  the 
Lady  Isabel  forever.  Captain  Levison  folded  up  the 
letter,  and  placed  it  securely  in  an  inner  pocket. 

"Is  there  any  news?"  she  asked. 

"News!" 

"Of  the  divorce,  I  mean." 

"Tush!"  was  the  response  of  Captain  Levison,  as  if 
wishing  to  imply  that  the  divorce  was  yet  a  far-off 
affair;  and  he  proceeded  to  open  the  other  letter. 

"Sir: — After  sending  off  our  last,  dated  to-day,  we 
received  tidings  of  the  demise  of  Sir  Peter  Levison, 


200  £AS  r  LYNNE 

your  great  uncle.  He  expired  this  afternoon  in  town, 
where  he  had  come  for  the  benefit  of  medical  advice. 
We  have  much  pleasure  in  congratulating  you  upon 
your  accession  to  the  title  and  estates,  and  beg  to  state 
that,  should  it  not  be  convenient  to  you  to  visit  Eng- 
land at  present,  we  will  be  happy  to  transact  all  nec- 
essary matters  for  you,  on  your  favoring  us  with 
instructions. 

"And  we  remain,  sir,  most  faithfully  j^ours, 

"Moss  &  Grab. 
*'SiR  Fra-ncts  Levison,  Bart." 

The  outside  of  this  letter  was  superscribed  as  the 
other,  "F.  Levison,  Esquire,"  no  doubt  with  a  view 
to  its  more  certain  delivery. 

"At  last!  thank  the  pigs!"  was  the  gentleman's 
euphonious  expression,  as  he  tossed  the  letter  open 
upon  the  breakfast  table. 

"The  divorce  is  granted!"  feverishly  uttered  Lady 
Isabel. 

He  made  no  ve^^'y,  but  seated  himself  at  breakfast. 

"May  I  read  the  letter?     Is  it  for  me  to  read?" 

"For  what  else  should  I  have  thrown  it  there?" 

"x\  few  days  ago  you  put  a  letter,  open,  on  the 
table,  I  thought  for  me;  but  when  I  took  it  up  you 
swore  at  me.   Do  you  remember  it,  Captain  Levison?" 

"You  may  drop  that  odious  title,  Isabel,  which  has 
stuck  to  me  too  long.     I  ov/n  a  better  now." 

"What  is  it,  pray?" 

"You  can  look,  and  see." 

Lady  Isabel  took  up  the  letter  and  read  it.  Sir 
Francis  swallowed  his  coffee,  and  rang  the  table  hand- 
bell— the  only  bell  you  generally  meet  with  in  France, 
Pierre  answered  it. 

"Put. up  a  change  of  things,"  said  he,  in  French. 
"I  start  for  England  in  an  hour." 

"It  is  very  well,"  Pierre  responded,  and  departed 
to  do  it.  Lady  Isabel  waited  till  the  man  was  gone, 
and  then  spoke,  a  faint  flush  of  emotion  appearing  in 
her  cheeks. 


EAST  LYNNE  zOl 

"You  do  not  mean  what  you  say?  You  will  not 
leave  me  yet?" 

"1  cannot  do  otherwise,"  he  answered.  "There's  a 
mountain  of  business  to  be  attended  to,  now  that  I  am 
come  into  power. ' ' 

"Moss  &  Grab  say  they  will  act  for  you.  Had  there 
been  a  necessity  for  your  going,  they  would  not  have 
offered  that." 

"Ay,  they  say  so— with  a  nice  eye  to  the  feathering 
of  their  pockets!  Go  to  England  I  must;  it  is  abso- 
lutely essential.  Besides,  I  should  not  choose  the  old 
man's  funeral  to  take  place  without  me," 

"Then  I  must  accompany  you,"  she  urged. 

"I  wish  you  would  not  talk  nonsense,  Isabel.  Are 
you  in  a  state  to  travel  night  and  day?  Neither  would 
England  be  agreeable  to  you  at  present. " 

She  felt  the  force  of  his  objections.  Resuming, 
after  a  moment's  pause:  "Were  you  to  go  to  Eng- 
land, you  might  not  be  back  in  time." 

"In  time  for  what?" 

"Oh,  how  can  you  ask?"  she  rejoined,  in  a  sharp 
tone  of  reproach;  "you  know  too  well.  In  time  to 
make  me  your  wife  when  the  divorce  shall  appear. ' ' 

"I  must  chance  it,"  coolly  observed  Sir  Francis. 

"Chance  it!  chance  the  legitimacy  of  the  child?  You 
must  assure  that,  before  all  things.  More  terrible  to 
me  than  all  the  rest  would  it  be — if " 

"Now  don't  put  yourself  in  a  fever,  Isabel.  How 
many  times  am  I  to  be  compelled  to  beg  that  of  you? 
It  does  no  good.  Is  it  my  fault,  if  I  am  called  sud- 
denly to  England?" 

"Have  you  no  pity  for  your  child?"  she  urged,  in 
agitation.  ''Nothing  can  repair  the  injury,  if  you  once 
suffer  it  to  come  upon  him.  He  will  be  a  byword 
amidst  men  throughout  his  life." 

"You  had  better  have  written  to  the  law  lords  to 
urge  on  the  divorce,"  he  retorted,  "i  cannot  help 
the  delay." 

"There  has  been  no  delay;  quite  the  contrary.  But 
it  may  be  expected  hourly  now." 


202  EAST  LYNNE 

*'You  are  worrying  yourself  for  nothing,  Isabel.  I 
shall  bo  back  in  time." 

He  quitted  the  room  as  he  spoke,  and  Lady  Isabel 
remained  in  it,  the  image  of  despair.  Nearly  an  hour 
passed,  when  she  remembered  the  breakfast  things, 
and  rang  for  them  to  be  removed.  A  maid-servant 
entered  to  do  it,  and  she  thought  how  ill  miladi  looked. 

"Where  was  Pierre?"  miladi  asked. 
*     "Pierre  was  making   himself  ready  to  attend  mon- 
sieur to  England." 

Scarcely  had  she  closed  the  door  upon  herself  and 
her  tray  when  Sir  Francis  Levison  appeared,  equipped 
for  traveling.  "Good-by,  Isabel,"  said  he,  without 
further  circumlocution  or  ceremony. 

Lady  Isabel,  excited  beyond  all  self-control,  slipped 
the  bolt  of  the  door,  and,  half  leaning  against  it,  half 
kneeling  at  his  feet,  help  up  her  hands  in  supplication. 
"Francis,  have  you  any  consideration  left  for  me — any 
in  the  world?" 

"How  can  you  be  so  absurd,  Isabel?  Of  course  I 
have,"  he  continued,  in  a  peevish  though  kind  tone, 
as  he  took  hold  of  her  hands  to  raise  her. 

"No,  not  yet.  I  will  remain  here  until  you  say  you 
will  wait  another  day  or  two.  You  know  that  the 
French  Protestant  minister  is  prepared  to  marry  us 
the  instant  news  of  the  divorce  shall  arrive;  if  you  do 
care  for  me  still  you  will  wait." 

"I  cannot  wait,"  he  replied,  his  tone  changing  to 
one  of  determination.      "It  is  useless  to  urge  it." 

"Say  that  you  will  not." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  not;  if  you  prefer  to  have  it; 
anything  to  please  you.  Isabel,  you  are  like  a  child. 
I  shall  be  back  in  time." 

"Do  not  think  I  am  urging  it  for  my  sake,"  she 
panted,  growing  more  agitated  with  every  fleeting 
moment.  "You  know  that  1  am  not.  I  do  not  care 
what  becomes  of  me.  No;  you  shall  not  go  till  you 
hear  me!  Oh,  Francis,  by  all  I  have  forfeited  for  your 

sake For  the  child's  sake!  for  the  child's  sake! 

A  whole  long  life  before  it;  never  to  hold  up  its  head, 


EAST  LYNNE  203 

of  right;  the  reproach  everlastingly  upon  it  that  it  was 
born  in  sin !  Francis !  Francis !  if  you  have  no  pity  for 
me,  have  pity  upon  it!" 

"I  think  you  are  losing  your  senses,  Isabel.  There's 
a  month  yet,  and  I  promise  you  to  be  back  ere  it  shall 
have  elapsed.  Nay,  one-half  of  it  shall  have  elapsed; 
a  week  will  accomplish  all  I  want  to  do  in  London. 
Let  me  pass;  you  have  my  promise,  and  I  will  keep  it. " 

She  never  moved.  Only  stood  where  she  was,  rais- 
ing her  supplicating  hands.  He  grew  impatient,  and 
by  some  dextrous  sleight  of  hand  got  the  door  open. 
She  seized  his  arm. 

"Not  for  my  sake,"  she  panted,  her  dry  lips  drawn 
and  livid. 

"Nonsense  about  'not  for  your  sake.'  It  is  for  your 
sake  that  I  will  keep  my  promise.  I  must  go.  There ; 
good-by,  Isabel,  and  take  care  of  yourself." 

He  broke  from  her  and  left  the  room,  and  in  another 
minute  had  left  the  house,  Pierre  attending  him.  A 
feeling  amounting  to  a  conviction  rushed  over  the 
unhappy  lady,  that  she  had  seen  him  for  the  last  time, 
until  it  should  be  too  late. 

She  was  right.   It  was  too  late  by  weeks  and  months. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

MUTUAL   COMPLIMENTS 

December  came  in.  The  Alps  were  covered  with 
snow;  Grenoble  borrowed  the  shade,  and  looked  cold, 
and  white,  and  sleety,  and  sloppy;  the  wide  gutters 
which  run  through  the  middle  of  the  streets  were 
unusually  black,  and  the  people  crept  along,  looking 
very  dismal.  Close  to  the  fire,  in  the  barn  of  a  French 
bedroom,  full  of  windows,  and  doors,  and  draughts, 
with  its  wide  hearth,  and  its  wide  chimney,  into  which 
we  could  put  four  or  five  of  our  English  ones,  shivered 
Lady  Isabel  Vane.  She  wore  an  invalid  cap,  and  a 
thick  woolen  invalid  shawl,  and  she  shook  and  shivered 


204  EAST  LYNNE 

perpetually;  though  she  had  drawn  so  close  to  the 
wood  fire  that  there  was  a  danger  of  her  petticoats 
igniting,  and  the  attendant  had  frequently  to  spring 
up  and  interpose  between  them  and  the  crackling  logs. 
Little  did  it  seem  to  matter  to  Lady  Isabel ;  she  sat  in 
one  position,  her  countenance  the  picture  of  stony 
despair. 

So  had  she  sat,  so  looked,  since  she  began  to  get 
better.  She  had  had  a  long  illness,  terminating  in 
low  fever;  but  the  attendants  whispered  amongst 
themselves  that  miladi  would  soon  get  about  if  she 
would  only  rouse  herself.  She  had  so  far  got  about  as 
to  sit  up  in  the  windy  chamber,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
to  be  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  whether  she  ever 
got  out  of  it. 

This  day  she  had  partaken  of  her  early  dinner — such 
as  it  was,  for  appetite  failed — and  had  dozed  asleep  in 
the  arm-chair,  when  a  noise  arose  from  below,  like  a 
carriage  driving  into  the  court-yard  through  the  porte 
cochere.     It  instantly  aroused  her.     Had  he  come? 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked  of  the  nurse. 

"Miladi,  it  is  monsieur ;  and  Pierre  is  with  him.  I 
have  begged  miladi  often  and  often  not  to  fret,  for 
that  monsieur  would  surely  come ;  and  miladi  sees  I 
am  right." 

A  strangely  firm  expression,  speaking  of  severe  res- 
olution, overspread  the  face  of  Lady  Isabel.  It  would 
appear  to  say  that  she  had  not  "fretted"  much  after 
him  who  had  now  arrived — or,  at  any  rate,  that  she 
was  not  fretting  after  him  now.  "Patience  and  calm- 
ness," she  murmured  to  herself.  "Oh,  may  they  not 
desert  me,  now  the  time  has  come!" 

"Monsieur  looks  so  well!"  proclaimed  the  maid, 
who  had  taken  up  her  station  at  a  window  that  over- 
looked the  court-yard.  "He  has  got  out  of  the  car- 
riage; he  is  shaking  himself  and  stamping  his  feet." 

"You  may  leave  the  room,  Susanne,"  said  Lady 
Isabel. 

"But  if  the  baby  wakes,  miladi?" 

"I  will  ring." 


EAST  LYNNE  205 

The  girl  departed,  closing  the  door,  and  Lady  Isa- 
bel sat  looking  at  it,  schooling  herself  into  patience. 
Another  moment  and  it  was  flung  open. 

Sir  Francis  Levison  approached  to  greet  her  as  he 
came  in.  She  waved  him  off,  begging  him,  in  a  sub- 
dued, quiet  tone,  not  to  draw  too  near,  as  any  little 
excitement  made  her  faint  now.  He  took  a  seat  oppo- 
site to  her,  and  began  pushing  the  logs  together  with 
his  boot,  as  he  explained  that  he  really  could  not  get 
away  from  town  before. 

*'Why  did  you  come  now?"  she  quietly  rejoined. 

'*Why  did  I  come?"  repeated  he.  "Are  these  all 
the  thanks  a  fellow  gets  for  traveling  in  this  inclement 
weather?  I  thought  you  would  at  least  have  been  glad 
to  welcome  me,  Isabel." 

"Sir  Francis,"  she  rejoined,  speaking  still  with 
almost  unnatural  calmness,  as  she  continued  to  do 
throughout  the  interview — though  the  frequent 
changes  in  her  countenance,  and  the  movement  of  her 
hands,  when  she  laid  them  from  time  to  time  on  her 
chest  to  keep  down  its  beating,  told  what  an  effort  the 
struggle  cost  her — "Sir  Francis,  I  am  glad,  for  one 
reason,  to  welcome  you ;  we  must  come  to  an  under- 
standing, one  with  the  other;  and,  so  far,  I  am  pleased 
that  you  are  here.  It  was  my  intention  to  have  com- 
municated with  you  by  letter  as  soon  as  I  found  myself 
capable  of  the  necessary  exertion,  but  your  visit  has 
removed  the  necessity.  I  wish  to  deal  with  you  quite 
unreservedly,  without  concealment  or  deceit;  I  must 
request  you  so  to  deal  with  me." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  *deal?'  "  he  asked,  settling 
the  logs  to  his  apparent  satisfaction. 

"To  speak  and  act.  Let  there  be  plain  truth  between 
us  at  this  interview,  if  there  never  has  been  before." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"Naked  truth,  unglossed  over,"  she  pursued,  bend- 
ing her  eyes  determinedly  upon  him.     "It   must  be." 

"AVith  all  my  heart,"  returned  Sir  Francis.  "It  is 
you  who  have  thrown  out  the  challenge,  mind." 

"When  you  left  in  July  you  gave  me  a  sacred  prom- 


206  EAST  LYNNE 

ise  to  come  back  in  time  for  our  marriage;  3^ou  know 
what  I  mean  when  I  say  'in  time;'  but " 

"Of  course  I  meant  to  do  so  when  I  gave  the  prom- 
ise," he  interrupted.  "But  no  sooner  had  I  set  foot 
in  London  than  1  found  myself  overwhelmed  with 
business,  and  away  from  it  I  could  not  get.  Even 
now  I  can  only  remain  with  you  a  couple  of  days,  for 
I  must  hasten  back  to  tov/n. " 

"You  are  breaking  faith  already,"  she  said,  after 
hearing  him  calmly  to  the  end.  "Your  words  are  not 
words  of  truth,  but  of  deceit.  You  did  not  intend  to 
be  back  in  time  for  the  marriage ;  or,  otherwise,  you 
would  have  caused  it  to  take  place  ere  you  went 
at  all." 

"What  fancies  you  take  up!"  interrupted  Francis 
Levison. 

"Some  time  subsequent  to  your  departure,"  she 
quietly  went  on,  "one  of  the  maids  was  setting  to 
rights  the  clothes  in  your  dressing-closet,  and  she 
brought  me  a  letter  she  found  in  one  ot  the  pockets. 
I  savv%  by  the  date,  that  it  was  one  of  those  two  which 
you  received  on  the  morning  of  your  departure.  It 
contained  the  information  that  the  divorce  was  pro- 
nounced. "' 

She  spoke  so  quietly,  so  apparently  without  feeling 
or  passion,  that  Sir  Francis  was  agreeably  astonished. 
He  should  have  less  trouble  in  throwing  off  the  mask. 
But  he  was  an  ill-tempered  man;  and,  to  hear  that  the 
letter  had  been  found,  to  have  the  falseness  of  his  fine 
protestations  and  promises  so  effectually  laid  bare,  did 
not  improve  his  temper  now.      Lady  Isabel  continued: 

"It  had  been  better  to  have  undeceived  me  then;  to 
have  told  me  that  the  hopes  I  was  cherishing,  for  the 
sake  of  the  unborn  child,  were  worse  than  vain," 

"I  did  not  judge  so,"  he  replied.  "The  excited  state 
you  then  appeared  to  be  in  would  have  precluded  your 
listening  to  any  sort  of  reason. " 

Her  heart  beat  a  little  quicker,  but  she  stilled  it. 
"You  deemed  that  it  was  not  in  reason  I  should  aspire 
to  be  made  the  wife  of  Sir  Francis  Levison." 


EAST  LYNNE  207 

He  rose  and  began  kicking  at  the  logs;  with  the  heel 
of  his  boot  this  time.  ''Well,  Isabel — you  must  be 
aware  that  it  is  an  awful  sacrifice  for  a  man  in  my 
position  to  marry  a  divorced  woman." 

The  hectic  flushed  into  her  thin  cheeks,  but  her 
voice  sounded  calm  as  before.  "When  I  expected,  or 
wished,  for  the  'sacrifice,'  it  was  not  for  my  own  sake; 
I  told  3^ou  so  then.  But  it  was  not  made;  and  the 
child's  inheritance  is  that  of  sin  and  shame.  There  he 
lies." 

Sir  Francis  half  turned  to  where  she  pointed,  and 
saw  an  infant's  cradle  by  the  side  of  the  bed.  He  did 
not  take  the  trouble  to  go  to  look  at  it. 

"I  am  the  representative  now  of  an  ancient  and 
respected  baronetcy,"  he  resumed,  in  a  tone  as  of 
apology  for  his  previously  heartless  words,  "and  to 
make  you  my  wife  would  so  offend  all  my  familv, 
that " 

"Stay,"  interrupted  Lady  Isabel;  "you  need  not 
trouble  yourself  to  find  needless  excuses.  Had  you 
taken  this  journey  for  the  purpose  of  making  me  your 
wife,  were  j^ou  to  propose  to  do  so  this  day,  and  bring 
a  clergyman  into  the  room  to  perform  the  ceremony, 
it  would  be  futile.  The  injury  to  the  child  can  never 
be  repaired;  and,  for  myself,  I  cannot  imagine  any 
fate  in  life  worse  than  the  being  compelled  to  pass  it 
with  you." 

"If  you  have  taken  this  aversion  to  me,  it  cannot  be 
helped,"  he  coolly  said,  inwardly  congratulating  him- 
self at  being  spared  the  trouble  he  had  anticipated. 
"You  made  commotion  enough  once,  about  my  making 
you  'reparation.'  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "All  the  reparation  in  your 
power  to  make,  all  the  reparation  that  the  whole  world 
can  invent,  could  not  undo  my  sin.  It,  and  its  effects, 
must  lie  upon  me  forever." 

"Oh — sin!"  was  the  derisive  exclamation.  "You 
ladies  should  think  of  that  beforehand." 

"Yes,"  she  sadly  answered.  "May  Heaven  help  all 
to  do  so,  who  may  be  tempted  as  I  was." 


208  EAST  LYNNE 

"If  you  mean  that  as  a  reproach  to  me,  it's  rather 
out  of  place,"  chafed  Sir  Francis,  whose  fits  of  ill- 
temper  were  under  no  control,  and  who  never,  when 
in  them,  cared  what  he  said  to  outrage  the  feelings  of 
another. 

"The  temptation  to  sin,  as  you  call  it,  lay  not  in  my 
persuasions,  half  as  much  as  in  your  jealous  anger 
toward  your  husband." 

"Quite  true,"  was  her  reply. 

"And  I  believe  you  were  on  the  wrong  scent,  Isabel 
— if  it  will  be  any  satisfaction  to  you  to  hear  it.  Since 
we  are  mutually  on  this  complimentary  discourse,  it  is 
of  no  consequence  to  smooth  over  facts." 

"I  do  not  tmderstand  what  you  would  imply,"  she 
said,  drawing  her  shawl  round  her  with  a  fresh  shiver. 
"How  'on  the  wrong  scent?'  " 

"With  regard  to  your  husband  and  that  Hare  girl. 
You  were  blindly,  outrageously  jealous  of  him." 

"Go  on." 

"And  I  say  I  think  you  were  on  the  wrong  scent.  I 
do  not  believe  Carlyle  ever  thought  of  the  girl — in 
that  way." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  gasped. 

"They  had  a  secret  between  them.  Not  of  love. 
A  secret  of  business;  and  those  interviews  they  had 
together,  her  dancing  attendance  upon  him  perpetu- 
ally, related  to  that  and  to  that  alone." 

Her  face  was  more  flushed  than  it  had  been  through- 
out the  interview.  He  spoke  quietly  now,  quite  in  an 
equable  tone  of  reasoning;  it  was  his  way  when  his  ill- 
temper  was  upon  him ;  and  the  calmer  he  spoke,  the 
more  cutting  were  his  words.  He  need  not  have  told 
her  this. 

"What  was  the  secret?"  she  inquired,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Nay,  I  can't  explain  all;  they  did  not  take  me  into 
their  confidence.  They  did  not  even  take  you;  better, 
perhaps,  that  they  had,  though,  as  things  have  turned 
out — or  seem  to  be  turning.  There's  some  disreputa- 
ble secret  attaching  to  the  Hare  family,  and  Carlyle 
was  acting  in  it  for  Mrs.  Hare.      She  could   not  seek 


EAST  LYNNE  209 

out  Carlyle  herself  so  she  sent  the  young  lady.  That's 
all  I  know." 

*'How  did  you  tnow  it?" 

''I  had  reason  to  think  so." 

''What  reason?     I  must  request  you  to  tell  me. 

-I  overheard  scraps  of  their  conversation  now  and 
then  in  those  meetings,  and  so  gathered  my  conclu- 

^'"^^You  told  a  different  tale  to  me,  Sir  Francis,"  was 
her  remark,  as  she  lifted  her  indignant  eyes  toward 

'sir  Francis  laughed.     '*A11   stratagems  are  fair  in 

love  and  war. "  ^^^i„ 

She  dared  not  immediately  trust  herself  to  reply, 
and  a  silence  ensued.  Sir  Francis  broke  it,  pointing 
with  his  left  thumb  over  his  shoulder  m  the  direction 

of  the  cradle.  ^.  .     ,.    _,,, 

"What  have  you  named  that  young  article  there? 
''The  name  which  ought  to  have  been  his  by  inherit- 
ance: 'Francis  Levison,'  "  was  her  icy  answer. 
"Let's  see— how  old  is  he  now?" 
"He  was  born  the  last  day  of  August. " 
Sir  Francis  threw  up  his  arms  and  stretched  him- 
self  as  if  a   at  of  idleness  had  overtaken  him;  then 
adv'anced  to  the  cradle  and  pulled  down  the  clothes. 
"Who  is  he  like,  Isabel?     My  handsome  self? 
"Were  he  like  you— in  spirit— I  would  pray  that  he 
mieht   die  ere  he  could  speak  or  think,     she  burst 
forth       And  then,   remembering   the  resolution   she 
had  marked  out  for  herself,  subsided  outwardly  into 

'^'^VhS  llv '  retorted  Sir  Francis.  ''You  know  my 
disposition  pretty  well  by  this  time,  Isabel,  and  may 
be  sure  that  if  you  deal  out  small  change  to  me,  you 
will  eet  it  back  again  with  interest. " 

She  made  no  reply.  Sir  Francis  P^^t  the  clothes 
back  over  the  sleeping  child  returned  to  the  fire  and 
stood  a  few  moments  with  his  back  to  it.  is  my 
foorn  prepared  for  me,  do  you  know?"  he  presently 
asked. 

14  Iv'tne 


210  EAST  LYNNE 

''No,  it  is  not,"  she  quietly  rejoined.  "These  apart- 
ments are  mine  now ;  they  have  been  transferred  into 
my  name,  and  they  can  never  again  afford  you  accom- 
modation. Will  you  be  so  obliging— I  am  not  strong— 
as  to  hand  me  that  writing  case?" 

Sir  Francis  walked  to  the  table  she  indicated,  which 
was  at  the  far  end  of  the  great  barn  of  a  room,  and, 
taking  the  writing-case  from  it,  gave  it  to  her.  She 
reached  her  keys  from  the  stand  at  her  elbow, 
unlocked  the  case,  and  took  from  it  some  bank-notes. 
"I  received  these  from  you  a  month  ago,"  she  said. 
"They  came  by  post." 

"And  you  never  had  the  grace  to  acknowledge 
them,"  he  returned,  in  a  sort  of  mock-reproachful 
tone. 

"Forty  pounds.     That  was  the  amount,  was  it  not?" 

"I  believe  so." 

"Allow  me  to  return  them  to  you.      Count  them." 

"Return  them  to  me?  Why?"  inquired  Sir  Francis, 
in  amazement.  "I  have  no  longer  anything  v/hatever 
to  do  with  you,  in  any  way.  Do  not  make  my  arm 
ache,  holding  out  the  notes  to  you  so  long!  Take 
them."  Sir  Francis  took  the  notes  from  her  hand  and 
placed  them  on  the  stand  near  to  her. 

"If  it  be  your  wish  that  all  relations  should  end 
between  us,  why,  let  it  be  so,"  he  said.  "I  must  con- 
fess I  think  it  may  be  the  wisest  course,  as  things 
have  come  to  pass,  for  the  cat-and-dog  life  which 
would  seemingly  be  ours,  is  not  agreeable.  Remember 
that  it  is  your  doing,  not  mine.  But  you  cannot  think 
I  am  going  to  see  j^ou  starve,  Isabel.  A  sum — we  will 
fix  upon  its  amount  amicably — shall  be  placed  to  your 
credit  half-yearly,  and " 

"I  beg  of  you  to  cease!"  she  passionately  inter- 
rupted.    "What  do  you  take  me  for?" 

"Take  you  for!  Why,  how  can  you  live?  You 
have  no  fortune;  you  must  receive  assistance  from 
some  one." 

"I  will  not  receive  it  from  you.  If  the  whole  world 
denied  me,  and  I  could  find  no  help  from   strangers, 


I 


EAST  LYNNE  211 

or  means  of  earning  my  own  bread,  and  it  was  neces- 
sary that  I  should  still  exist,  I  would  apply  to  my  hus- 
band for  means,  rather  than  to  you.  This  ought  to 
convince  you  that  the  topic  may  cease." 

"Your  husband?"  sarcastically  rejoined  Sir  Francis. 
"Generous  man!" 

A  flush,  deep  and  painful,  dyed  her  cheeks.  "I 
should  have  said  my  late  husband.  You  need  not  have 
reminded  me  of  the  mistake." 

"If  you  will  accept  nothing  for  yourself,  you  must 
for  the  child.  He,  at  any  rate,  falls  to  my  share.  I 
shall  give  you  a  few  hundreds  a  year  for  him." 

She  beat  her  hands  before  her,  as  if  beating  off  the 
man  and  his  words.  "Not  a  farthing,  now  or  ever; 
were  you  to  attempt  to  send  money  for  him,  I  would 
throw  it  into  the  nearest  river.  Whom  do  you  take  me 
for? — what  do  you  take  me  for?"  she  repeated,  rising 
in  her  bitter  mortification ;  "if  you  have  put  me  be5^ond 
the  pale  of  the  world,  I  am  still  Lord  Mount  Severn's 
daughter." 

"You  did  as  much  toward  putting  yourself  beyond 
its  pale  as " 

"Don't  I  know  it?  Have  I  not  said  so?"  she  sharply 
interrupted.  And  then  she  sat,  striving  to  calm  her- 
self, clasping  together  her  shaking  hands. 

"Well,  if  you  will  persist  in  this  perverse  resolution, 
I  cannot  mend  it,"  resumed  Sir  Francis.  "In  a  little 
time  you  may  probably  wish  to  recall  it;  in  which  case, 
a  line,  addressed  me  at  my  bankers,  will " 

Lady  Isabel  drew  herself  up.  "Put  away  those 
notes,  if  you  please,"  she  interrupted,  not  allowing 
him  to  finish  the  sentence. 

He  took  out  his  pocketbook  and  placed  the  bank- 
notes within  it. 

"Your  clothes — those  you  left  here  when  you  went 
to  England — you  will  have  the  goodness  to  order 
Pierre  to  take  away  this  afternoon.  And  now.  Sir 
Francis,  I  believe  that  is  all ;  we  will  part." 

"To  remain  mortal  enemies  from  henceforth?"  he 
rejoined.     "Is  that  to  be  it?" 


212  EAST  LYNNE 

"To  be  strangers,"  she  replied,  correcting  him.  "I 
wish  you  a  good-day." 

"So  you  will  not  even  shake  hands  with  me,  Isabel?" 

"I  would  prefer  not." 

And  thus  they  parted.  Sir  Francis  left  the  room, 
but  not  immediately  the  house.  He  went  into  a  dis- 
tant apartment,  and,  calling  the  servants  before  him 
— there  were  but  two — gave  them  each  a  year's  wages 
in  advance.  "That  they  might  not  have  to  trouble 
miladi  for  money,"  he  said  to  them.  Then  he  paid  a 
visit  to  the  landlord,  and  handed  him  likewise  a  year's 
rent  in  advance,  making  the  same  remark.  After  that 
he  ordered  dinner  at  an  hotel,  and  the  same  night  he 
and  Pierre  departed  on  their  journey  home  again.  Sir 
Francis  thanking  his  lucky  stars  that  he  had  so  easily 
got  rid  of  a  vexatious  annoyance. 

When  Lady  Isabel  lay  down  to  rest,  she  sank  into 
somewhat  calmer  sleep  than  she  had  known  of  late; 
also  into  a  dream.  She  thought  she  was  back  at  East 
Lynne — not  back  in  one  sense,  but  that  she  seemed 
never  to  have  gone  awa}^  from  it — walking  in  the 
flower  garden  with  Mr.  Carlyle,  while  the  three  chil- 
dren played  on  the  lawn.  Her  arm  was  within  her 
husband's,  and  he  was  relating  something  to  her ;  what 
the  news  was  she  could  not  remember  afterward, 
excepting  that  it  was  connected  with  the  office  and 
old  Mr.  Dill,  and  that  Mr.  Carlyle  laughed  when  he 
told  it.  They  appeared  to  be  interrupted  by  the  crying 
of  Archibald;  and  in  turning  to  the  lawn  to  ask  what 
was  the  matter,  she  awoke.  Alas!  it  was  the  actual 
crying  of  her  own  child  which  awoke  her;  this  last 
child;  the  ill-fated  little  being  in  the  cradle  beside  her. 
But,  for  a  single  instant,  she  forgot  recent  events  and 
doings;  she  believed  she  was  indeed  in  her  happy  home 
at  East  Lynne,  a  proud  mother,  an  honored  wife.  As 
recollection  flashed  across  her  with  its  piercing  stings, 
she  gave  vent  to  a  sharp  cry  of  agony,  of  unavailing 
despair. 


EAST  LYNNE  213 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

ALONE   FOR    EVERMORE 

A  surprise  awaited  Lady  Isabel  Vane.  It  was  on  a 
windy  day  in  the  following  March  that  a  traveler 
arrived  at  Grenoble. 

It  was  Lord  Mount  Severn. 

"How  did  you  find  out  where  I  was?"  she  gasped, 
when  some  painful  words  had  been  uttered  on  both 
sides. 

"I  went  to  Sir  Francis  Levison  and  demanded  your 
address.  Certain  recent  events  implied  that  he  and 
you  must  have  parted,  and  I  therefore  deemed  it  time 
to  inquire  what  he  had  done  with  you." 

"Since  last  July, "  she  interrupted,  lifting  her  wan 
face,  now  colorless  again.  "Do  not  think  worse  of  me 
than  I  am.  He  was  here  in  December  for  an  hour's 
recriminating  interview,  and  we  then  parted  for  life." 

"What  have  you  heard  of  him  lately?" 

"Not  anything.  I  never  know  what  is  passing  in 
the  world  at  home ;  I  have  no  newspaper,  no  corre- 
spondence ;  and  he  would  scarcely  be  so  bold  as  to 
write  to  me  again." 

"I  shall  not  shock  you,  then,  by  some  tidings  I 
bring  you  regarding  him,"  returned  Lord  Mount 
Severn. 

"The  greatest  shock  to  me  would  be  to  hear  that  I 
should  ever  again  be  subjected  to  see  him,"  she 
answered. 

"He  is  married. " 

"Heaven  have  pity  on  his  poor  wife!"  was  all  the 
comment  of  Lady  Isabel. 

"He  has  married  Alice  Challoner." 

She  lifted  her  head  then,  in  simple  surprise.  "Alice? 
Not  Blanche?" 

"The  story  runs  that  he  has  played   Blanche  very 


214  EAST  LYNNE 

false.  That  he  had  been  with  her  much,  leading  on 
her  expectations;  and  then  he  suddenly  proposed  for 
her  younger  sister.  I  know  nothing  of  the  details 
myself — it  is  not  likely;  and  I  had  heard  nothing,  until 
one  evening  at  the  club  I  saw  the  announcement  of 
the  marriage  for  the  following  day  at  St.  George's. 
I  was  at  the  church  the  next  morning  before  he 
was. " 

"Not  to  stop  it!  not  to  intercept  the  marriage!" 
breathlessly  uttered  Lady  Isabel. 

"Certainly  not.  I  had  no  power  to  attempt  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  I  went  to  demand  an  answ^er  to  my 
question — what  he  had  done  with  you,  and  where  you 
were?  He  gave  me  this  address,  but  said  he  knew 
nothing  of  5^our  movements  since  December." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  earl  appeared  to  be 
alternately  ruminating  and  taking  a  survey  of  the 
room.  Isabel  sat  with  her  head  hanging  down.  "Why 
did  you  seek  me  out?"  she  presently  broke  forth.  "I 
am  not  worthy  of  it.  I  have  brought  enough  disgrace 
upon  your  name." 

"And  upon  your  husband's,  and  upon  your  chil- 
dren's," he  rejoined,  in  his  most  severe  manner,  for  it 
was  not  in  the  nature  of  the  Earl  of  Mount  Severn  to 
gloss  over  guilt.  "Nevertheless,  it  is  incumbent  upon 
me,  as  your  nearest  blood  relative,  to  see  after  you, 
now  that  you  are  alone  again,  and  to  take  care — so  far 
as  I  can — that  you  do  not  lapse  dower." 

He  might  have  spared  her  that  stab.  But  she 
scarcely  understood  him.  She  looked  at  him,  wonder- 
ing whether  she  did  understand.  "You  have  not  a 
shilling  in  the  world,"  he  resumed.  "How  do  you 
propose  to  live?" 

"I  have  some  money  yet.     When " 

"His  money?"  sharply  and  haughtily  interposed  the 
earl. 

"No,"  she  indignantly  replied.  "I  am  selling  my 
trinkets.  Before  they  are  all  gone,  I  shall  try  to  earn 
a  livelihood  in  some  wa}'.  " 

' '  Trinkets ! ' '  repeated  Lord  Mount  Severn.   ' '  Mr.  Car- 


EAST  LYNNE  215 

lyle  told  me  that  you  carried  nothing  away  with  you 
from  East  Lynne. " 

''Nothing  that  he  had  given  me.  These  were  mine 
before  I  married.  You  have  seen  Mr.  Carlyle,  then?" 
she  faltered. 

"Seen  him!"  echoed  the  indignant  earl.  "When 
such  a  blow  was  dealt  him  by  a  member  of  my  own 
family,  could  I  do  less  than  hasten  to  East  Lynne  to 
tender  my  sympathies?  I  went  with  another  object 
also — to  try  to  discover  what  could  have  been  moving 
the  springs  of  your  conduct;  for  I  protest,  when  the 
black  tidings  reached  me,  I  believed  that  you  must 
have  gone  mad.  You  were  one  of  the  last  whom  I 
should  have  feared  to  trust.  But  I  learned  nothing, 
and  Carlyle  was  ignorant  as  I.  How  could  you  strike 
him  such  a  blow?" 

Lower  and  lower  drooped  her  head,  brighter  shone 
the  shame  on  her  hectic  cheek.  An  awful  blow  U- 
Mr,  Carlyle  it  must  indeed  have  been;  she  was  feeling 
it  in  all  its  bitter  intensity.  Lord  Mount  Severn  read 
her  repentant  looks. 

"Isabel,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  which  had  lost  some- 
thing of  its  harshness — and  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
called  her  by  her  Christian  name,  "I  see  you  are  reap- 
ing the  fruits.  Tell  me  how  it  happened.  What 
demand  prompted  you  to  sell  yourself  to  that  bad 
man?" 

"He  is  a  bad  man,"  she  exclaimed.  "A  base,  heart- 
less, bad  man." 

' '  1  warned  you  at  the  commencement  of  your  married 
life  to  avoid  him ;  to  shun  all  association  with  him ;  not 
to  admit  him  to  your  house." 

"His  coming  to  East  Lynne  was  not  my  doing,"  she 
whispered.     "Mr.  Carlyle  invited  him. " 

"I  know  he  did.  Invited  him  in  his  unsuspicious 
confidence,  believing  his  wife  to  be  his  wife,  a  trust- 
worthy woman  of  honor,"  was  the  severe  remark. 

She  did  not  reply;  she  could  not  gainsay  it;  she  only 
sat  with  her  meek  face  of  shame  and  her  eyelids 
drooping. 


216  EAST  LYNNE 

*'If  ever  a  woman  had  a  good  husband,  in  every 
sense  of  the  word,  you  had  in  Carlyle ;  if  ever  man 
loved  his  wife,  he  loved  you.  How  could  you  so 
requite  him?" 

She  rolled,  in  a  confused  manner,  the  corners  of  her 
shawl  over  her  unconscious  fingers. 

'*I  read  the  note  you  left  for  your  husband.  He 
showed  it  to  me ;  the  only  one,  I  believe,  to  whom  he 
did  show  it.  It  was  to  him  entirely  inexplicable;  it 
was  so  to  me,  A  notion  had  been  suggested  to  him, 
after  your  departure,  that  his  sister  had  somewhat 
marred  your  peace  at  East  Lynne ;  and  he  blamed  you 
much — if  it  were  so — for  not  giving  him  your  full  con- 
fidence on  the  point,  that  he  might  have  set  matters 
on  the  right  footing.  But  it  was  impossible  (and  there 
was  the  evidence  in  the  note  besides)  that  the  presence 
of  Miss  Carlyle  at  East  Lynne  could  be  any  excuse  for 
your  disgracing  us  all  and  ruining  yourself." 

"Do  not  let  me  speak  of  these  things,"  said  Lady 
Isabel,  faintly.     '*It  cannot  redeem  the  past." 

"But  I  must  speak  of  them;  I  am  come  to  speak  of 
them,"  persisted  the  earl;  "I  could  not  do  so  whilst 
that  man  was  here.  When  these  inexplicable  events 
take  place  in  the  career  of  a  woman,  it  is  a  father's 
duty  to  look  into  motives  and  causes  and  actions; 
although  the  events  in  themselves  may  be,  as  in  this 
case,  irreparable.  Your  father  is  gone,  but  I  stand  in 
his  place;  there  is  no  one  else  to  stand  in  it." 

Her  tears  began  to  fall.  And  she  let  them  fall — in 
silence.     The  earl  resumed. 

"But  for  the  extraordinary  letter,  I  should  have  sup- 
posed you  had  been  solely  actuated  by  a  mad  infatua- 
tion for  the  cur,  Levison;  its  tenor  gave  the  affair  a 
different  aspect.  To  what  did  you  allude  when  you 
asserted  that  your  husband  had  driven  you  to  it?" 

"He  knew,"  she  answered,  scarcely  above  her 
breath. 

"He  did  not  know,"  sternly  replied  the  earl.  "A 
more  truthful,  honorable  man  than  Carlyle  does  not 
exist  on  the  face  of  the  earth.    When  he  told  me  then, 


EAST  LYNNE  217 

in  his  agon}^  of  grief,  that  he  was  unable  to  form  even 
a  suspicion  of  your  meaning,  I  could  have  staked  my 
earldom  on  his  veracity.     I  would  stake  it  still." 

**I  believed,"  she  began,  in  a  low,  nervous  voice, 
for  she  knew  that  there  was  no  evading  the  questions 
of  Lord  Mount  Severn,  when  he  was  resolved  to  have 
an  answer,  and,  indeed,  she  was  too  weak,  both  in 
body  and  spirit,  to  resist — "I  believed  that  his  love 
was  no  longer  mine;  that  he  had  deserted  me  for 
another." 

The  earl  stared  at  her.  *'What  can  you  mean  by 
^deserted?'     He  was  with  you." 

"There  is  a  desertion  of  the  heart,"  was  her  mur- 
mured answer. 

"Desertion  of  a  fiddlestick!"  retorted  his  lordship. 
"The  interpretation  we  gave  to  the  note,  1  and  Car- 
lyle,  was  that  you  had  been  actuated  by  motives  of 
jealousy — had  penned  it  in  a  jealous  mood.  I  put  the 
question  to  Carlyle — as  between  man  and  man — do  you 
listen,  Isabel? — whether  he  had  given  you  cause;  and 
he  answered  me,  as  with  God  over  us,  he  had  never 
given  you  cause — he  had  been  faithful  to  you  in 
thought,  word  and  deed — he  had  never,  so  far  as  he 
could  call  to  mind,  even  looked  upon  another  woman 
with  covetous  feelings  since  the  hour  that  he  made 
you  his  wife;  his  Vv^hole  thoughts  had  been  of  you 
alone.  It  is  more  than  many  a  husband  can  say," 
significantly  coughed  Lord  Mount  Severn.  . 

Her  pulses  were  beating  wildly.  A  powerful  con- 
viction that  the  words  were  true ;  that  her  own  blind 
jealousy  had  been  titterly  mistaken  and  unfounded  was 
forcing  its  way  to  her  brain. 

"After  that  I  could  only  set  your  letter  down  as  a 
subterfuge,"  resumed  the  earl ;  "a  false,  barefaced  plea, 
put  forth  to  conceal  your  real  motive ;  and  I  told  Car- 
lyle so.  I  inquired  how  it  was  he  had  never  detected 
any  secret  understanding  between  you  and  that — that 
beast;  located,  as  the  fellow  was,  in  the  house.  He 
replied  that  no  such  suspicion  had  ever  occurred  to 
him.     He  placed  the  most  implicit  confidence  in  you, 


218  EAST  LYNNE 

and  would  have  trusted  you  with  the  man  round  the 
world;  or  with  any  one  else." 

She  entwined  her  hands,  one  within  the  other,  press- 
ing them  to  pain.  It  could  not  deaden  the  pain  at  her 
heart. 

"Carlyle  told  me  he  had  been  unusually  occupied 
during  the  stay  of  that  man.  Besides  his  customary 
office  work,  his  time  was  taken  up  with  some  secret 
business  for  a  family  in  the  neighborhood,  and  he  had 
repeatedly  to  see  them  after  office  hours — very  old 
acquaintances  of  his,  he  said,  relatives  of  the  Carlyle 
family,  and  he  was  as  anxious  about  his  secret  as  they 
were.  This,  I  observed  to  him,  may  have  rendered 
him  unobservant  to  what  was  passing  at  home.  He 
told  me,  I  remember,  that  on  the  evening  of  the — the 
catastrophe,  he  ought  to  have  gone  with  you  to  a  din- 
ner party,  but  most  important  circumstances  arose  in 
connection  with  the  affair,  which  obliged  him  to  meet 
two  gentlemen  at  his  office,  and  to  receive  them  in 
secret,  unknown  to  his  clerks." 

'*Did  he — mention  the  name  of  the  family?" 
inquired  Lady  Isabel,  with  white  lips. 

**Yes,  he  did;  I  forgot  it,  thouofh.  Rabit?  Rabit' 
Some  such  name  as  that." 

"Was  it  Hare?" 

"That  was  it.  Hare.  He  said  you  appeared  vexed 
that  he  did  not  accompany  you  to  the  dinner;  perceiv- 
ing this,  he  intended  to  go  in  afterward,  but  was  pre- 
vented. When  the  interview  was  over  in  his  office, 
he  was  again  detained  at  Mrs.  Hare's  house,  and  by 
business  as  impossible  to  avoid  as  the  other." 

"Important  business!"  she  echoed,  giving  way  for  a 
moment  to  the  bitterness  of  former  feelings.  "He 
was  promenading  in  their  garden  by  moonlight  with 
Barbara — Miss  Hare.  I  saw  them  as  my  carriage 
passed." 

"And  you  were  jealous!"  exclaimed  Lord  Mount 
Severn,  with  mocking  reproach,  as  he  detected  her 
mood.  "Listen!"  he  whispered,  bending  his  head 
toward  her.     "Whilst  you  thought,  as  your  present 


EAST  LYNNE  219 

tone  would  seem  to  intimate,  that  they  were  pacing- 
there  to  enjoy  each  other's  society,  know  that  they — 
Carlyle,  at  any  rate — was  pacing  the  walk  to  keep 
guard.  There  was  one  within  that  house,  for  a  short 
interview  with  his  poor  mother — one  who  lives  in  dan- 
ger of  the  scaffold;  to  which  his  own  father  would  be 
the  first  to  deliver  him  up.  They  were  keeping  the 
path  against  that  father,  Carlyle  and  the  young  lady. 
Of  all  the  nights  in  the  previous  seven  years,  that  one 
only  saw  the  unhappy  son  at  home,  for  a  half-hour's 
meeting  with  his  mother  and  sister.  Carlyle,  in  the 
grief  and  excitement  caused  by  your  conduct,  confided 
so  much  to  me,  when  mentioning  what  kept  him  from 
the  dinner  party." 

Her  face  had  become  crimson — crimson  at  her  past 
lamentable  folly.  And  there  was  no  redemption! 
"But  he  was  always  with  Barbara  Hare!"  she  mur- 
mured, by  way  of  some  faint  excuse. 

"She  had  to  see  him  upon  this  affair;  her  mother 
could  not,  for  it  was  obliged  to  be  kept  from  the 
father.  And  you  construed  business  interviews  with 
assignations!"  continued  Lord  Mount  Severn,  with 
cutting  derision.  "I  had  given  you  credit  for  better 
sense.  But  was  this  enough  to  hurl  you  on  to  the  step 
you  took?  Surely  not!  You  must  have  yielded  to  the 
persuasion  of  that  wicked  man." 

"It  is  all  over  now,"  she  wailed. 

"Carlyle  was  true  and  faithful  to  you,  and  to  you 
alone.  Few  wom^en  have  the  chance  of  happiness  in 
their  married  life  in  the  degree  that  you  had.  He  is 
an  upright  and  good  man;  one  of  Nature's  gentlemen; 
one  that  England  may  be  proud  of,  as  having  grown 
upon  her  soil.  The  more  I  see  of  him  the  greater 
becomes  my  admiration  of  him,  and  of  his  thorough 
honor.  Do  you  know  what  he  did  in  the  matter  of  the 
damages?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"He  did  not  wish  to  proceed  for  damages,  or  only 
for  the  trifling  sum  demanded  bylaw;  but  the  jury, 
feeling  for  his  wrongs,    gave  unprecedentedly  heavy 


220  EAST  LYNNE 

ones.  Since  the  fellow  came  into  his  baronetcy  they 
have  been  paid;  Carlyle  immediately  handed  them 
over  to  the  county  hospital.  He  holds  the  apparently 
obsolete  opinion  that  money  cannot  wipe  out  a  wife's 
dishonor." 

"Let  us  close  these  topics,"  implored  the  poor 
invalid.  "I  acted  wickedly  and  madly;  and  I  have 
the  consequence  to  bear  forever.     More  I  cannot  say. " 

"Where  do  you  intend  to  fix  your  future  residence?" 
inquired  the  earl. 

"I  am  unable  to  tell.  I  shall  leave  this  town  as  soon 
as  1  am  well  enough." 

"Ay.  It  cannot  be  pleasant  for  you  to  remain 
under  the  eyes  of  its  inhabitants." 

"They  think  I  am  his  wife,"  she  murmured.  "The 
servants  think  it." 

"That's  well,  so  far.  How  many  servants  have 
you.''" 

"Two.  I  am  not  strong  enough  yet  to  do  much 
myself,  so  am  obliged  to  keep  two,"  she  continued,  as 
if  in  apology  for  the  extravagance  under  her  reduced 
circumstances.  "As  soon  as  ever  the  baby  can  walk 
I  shall  manage  to  do  with  one." 

The  earl  looked  confounded.  "The  baby!"  he 
uttered,  in  a  tone  of  astonishment  and  grief.  "Isabel, 
is  there  a  child?" 

Not  less  painful  was  her  own  emotion  as  she  hid 
her  face.  Lord  Mount  Severn  rose  and  paced  the 
room  with  striding  steps. 

"I  did  not  know  it!  I  did  not  know  it!  Wicked, 
heartless  villain!  He  ought  to  have  married  you 
before  its  birth.  Was  the  divorce  out  previously?'*  he 
added,  stopping  short  in  his  strides  to  ask  it. 

"Yes." 

"Coward!  sneak!  May  good  men  shun  him  from 
henceforth!  May  his  queen  refuse  to  receive  him! 
You,  an  earl's  daughter!  Oh,  Isabel!  How  utterly 
you  have  lost  yourself!" 

Lady  Isabel  started  from  her  chair  in  a  burst  of  hys- 
terical sobs,  her  hands  extended  beseechingly  toward 


EAST  LYNNE  221 

the  earl.  *' Spare  me!  spare  me!  You  have  been 
rending  my  heart  ever  since  you  came ;  indeed,  I  am 
too  weak  to  bear  it." 

The  earl,  in  truth,  had  been  betrayed  into  showing 
more  of  his  sentiments  than  he  intended.  He  recalled 
his  recollection.  "Well,  well;  sit  down  again,  Isabel," 
he  said,  putting  her  into  a  chair.  "We  will  go  to  the 
point  I  chiefly  cam^e  here  to  settle.  What  sum  will  it 
take  you  to  live  upon?  Quietly — as,  of  course,  you 
would  now  wish  to  live — but  comfortably." 

"I  will  not  accept  anything,"  she  replied.  "I  will 
get  my  own  living;"  and  the  earl's  irascibility  again 
rose  at  the  speech.     He  spoke  in  a  sharp  tone: 

"Absurd,  Isabel!  Do  not  add  romantic  folly  to  your 
other  mistakes.  Get  your  own  living,  indeed!  As 
much  as  is  necessary  for  you  to  live  upon  I  shall  sup- 
ply. No  remonstrance;  I  tell  you  I  am  acting  for 
your  father.  Do  you  suppose  he  would  have  aban- 
doned you  to  starve  or  to  work?" 

The  allusion  touched  every  chord  within  her  bosom, 
and  the  tears  fell  fast.  "I  thought  I  could  get  my 
living  by  teaching,"  she  sobbed. 

"And  how  much  did  you  anticipate  the  teaching 
would  bring  you  in?" 

"Not  very  much,"  she  listlessly  said.  "A  hundred 
a  year,  perhaps;  I  am  very  clever  at  music  and  singing. 
That  sum  might  keep  us,  I  fancy,  even  if  I  only  went 
out  by  day." 

"And  a  fine 'keep'  it  would  be!  You  shall  have 
that  sum  every  quarter!" 

"No,  no!  oh,  no!  I  do  not  deserve  it;  I  could  not 
accept  it.     I  have  forfeited  all  claim  to  assistance." 

"Not  to  mine.  Now,  it  is  of  no  use  to  excite  your- 
self, for  my  mind  is  made  up.  I  never  willingly 
forego  a  duty,  and  I  look  upon  this  not  only  as  a  duty, 
but  an  imperative  one.  Upon  my  return  I  shall  imme- 
diately settle  four  hundred  a  year  upon  you,  and  you 
can  draw  it  quarterly." 

"Then  half  the  sum,"  she  reiterated,  knowing  how 
iseless  it  was  to  contend  with   Lord  Mount  Severn 


222  EAST  LYNNE 

when  he  got  upon  the  stilts  of  "duty."  "Indeed,  two 
hundred  a  year  will  be  ample;  it  will  seem  like  riches 
to  me." 

"I  have  named  the  sum,  Isabel,  and  I  shall  not 
make  it  less.  A  hundred  pounds  every  three  months 
shall  be  paid  to  you,  dating  from  this  day.  This  does 
not  count, "  he  continued,  laying  down  some  notes  upon 
the  table. 

"Indeed,  I  have  some  ready  money  by  me,"  she 
urged,  her  cheeks  flushed  at  what  she  looked  upon  as 
unmerited  kindness;  for  none  could  think  worse  of  her 
than  she  did  of  herself.  "Pray  take  it  back;  you  are 
too  good  to  me." 

' '  I  don't  know  what  you  call ' ready  money, '  "  returned 
the  earl,  "but  you  have  just  informed  me  that  you 
were  selling  your  trinkets  to  live  upon.  Put  up  the 
notes,  Isabel;  they  are  only  a  small  amount,  just  to 
go  on  with.     Are  you  in  debt?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"And  mind  you  don't  get  into  it,"  advised  the  earl, 
as  he  rose  to  depart.  "You  can  let  me  hear  of  you 
from  time  to  time,  Isabel." 

"What  does  the  world  say  of  me?"  she  took  courage 
to  whisper.  It  was  a  question  often  in  her  own  mind. 
Lord  Mount  Severn  paused  before  he  replied,  marvel- 
ing, probably,  that  she  could  ask  it. 

"Just  what  you  may  have  said  in  the  da^^-s  now  over 
at  any  who  had  gone  the  way  j^ou  have  done.  What 
did  you  expect  that  it  would  say?" 

What,  indeed!  She  stood  there  with  her  humble 
face  and  her  beating  heart.  The  earl  took  her  hand 
within  his,  in  token  of  farewell;  turned,  and  was  gone. 

Lord  Mount  Severn,  stern  and  uncompromising  as 
he  was,  had  yet  a  large  share  of  kindness  and  consci- 
entiousness. From  the  moment  he  heard  of  the  false 
step  taken  by  Lady  Isabel,  and  that  it  was  with  Fran- 
cis Levison  she  had  flown,  he  cast  more  blame  than 
he  had  ever  done  upon  the  conduct  of  his  wife,  in 
having  forced  her — so  he  regarded  it — upon  Mr.  Car- 
lyle.     In  short,  he  considered  his  wife  as  the  primary^ 


EAST  LYNNE  223 

though  remote,  cause  of  the  present  ill;  not  that  he  in 
the  slightest  degree  underrated  Lady  Isabel's  own 
share  in  it;  quite  the  contrary.  From  this  motive,  no 
less  than  that  he  was  her  blood  relative,  he  deemed  it 
his  duty  to  see  after  her  in  her  shame  and  sadness. 

Susanne  attended  Lord  Mount  Severn  to  the  door 
and  watched  him  down  the  street,  thinking  what  a 
"'hrsiYQ  Monsieur  Anglais''  he  was,  and  how  delighted 
miladi  must  be  at  seeing  a  friend  to  break  the  monot- 
ony of  her  sick  and  lonely  existence.  Susanne  made 
no  doubt  that  the  visit  must  so  far  have  aroused  miladi 
as  to  set  her  thinking  about  getting  out  her  smart 
dresses  once  more,  and  that  the  first  words  she  should 
hear  on  entering  miladi's  presence  would  touch  on  that 
attractive  point. 

The  Earl  of  Mount  Severn  returned  to  the  Hotel 
des  Ambassadeurs,  dined,  and  slept  there,  and  the 
following  morning  quitted  it  on  his  return  to  the 
pleasures  and  bustle  of  civilized  life.  And  Lady  Isabel 
remained  on  in  her  chamber,  alone. 

Alone — alone!     Alone  for  evermore! 


CHAPTER  XXXin 


AN   ACCIDENT 


As  the  year  advanced  Lady  Isabel  grew  stronger^ 
and  in  the  latter  part  of  the  summer  made  prepara- 
tions for  quitting  Grenoble.  Where  she  would  fix  her 
residence  or  what  she  would  do  she  knew  not.  She 
was  miserable  and  restless  and  cared  little  what 
becam.e  of  her.  The  remotest  spot  on  earth,  one 
unpenetrated  by  the  steps  of  civilized  man,  appeared 
the  most  desirable  to  her.   Where  was  she  to  find  this? 

She  set  out  on  her  search — she,  the  child  and  a 
young  peasant  woman,  whom  she  had  engaged  as 
bonne,  for  Susanne,  having  a  lover  at  Grenoble, 
entirely  declined  to  leave  the  place.  All  her  luggage, 
except  the  things  absolutely  requisite.  Lady  Isabel 
had  forwarded  to  Paris,  there  to  be  warehoused  until 


224  EAST  LYNNE 

she  sent  further  directions.  It  was  a  lovely  day  when 
she  quitted  Grenoble.  The  train  traveled  safely  until 
in  the  dusk  of  the  evening  they  approached  a  place 
called  Cammere,  where  Lady  Isabel  proposed  to  rest 
for  a  day  or  two.  Railway  accidents  are  less  frequent 
in  France  than  they  are  with  us,  but  when  they  do 
occur  they  are  wholesale  catastrophes,  the  memory  of 
which  lasts  for  a  lifetime.  The  train  was  v/ithin  a 
short  distance  of  the  station  when  there  came  a  sudden 
shock  and  crash  as  of  the  day  of  doom;  and  engine, 
carriages  and  passengers  lay  in  one  confused  mass  at 
the  foot  of  a  steep  embankment.  The  gathering  dark- 
ness added  to  the  awful  confusion. 

The  carriage  in  which  Lady  Isabel  with  her  child 
and  bonne  traveled  lay  beneath  a  superincumbent  mass 
of  ruins ;  they  were  among  the  last  passengers  to  be 
extricated.  The  bo?tne  and  the  poor  baby  were  quite 
dead.  Lady  Isabel  was  alive  and  conscious,  but  so 
severely  injured  that  the  medical  men,  who  had  been 
brought  to  the  spot  in  all  haste,  turned  from  her  to 
give  their  attention  to  other  sufferers  whose  case 
seemed  less  desperate — she  heard  them  say  that  she 
would  not  survive  amputation,  and  that  nothing  else 
could  be  done ;  that  she  must  die  whether  there  was 
an  operation  or  not.  The  injuries  lay  in  one  leg  and 
the  lower  part  of  her  face.  She  had  not  counted  upon 
dying  in  this  manner,  and  death  in  the  guise  of  horri- 
ble suffering  was  not  the  abstract  thing  of  release  and 
escape  which  it  had  seemed  when  she  had  wished  for 
it  as  the  end  of  all  her  wretchedness.  She  was  unable 
to  move,  but  the  shock  had  deadened  sensation;  she 
was  not  yet  in  pain,  and  her  mind  was  for  a  short 
interval  preternaturally  clear  and  lucid.  A  Sister  of 
Charity  approached  the  stretcher  on  which  she  had 
been  laid,  and  offered  her  some  water.  Isabel  drank 
eagerly. 

"Is  there  aught  else  I  can  do?"  asked  the  Sister. 

'*My  baby  and  its  nurse  were  with  me  in  the  car- 
riage— tell  me,  have  they  been  found?  Is  my  child 
killed?"  asked  Isabel. 


EAST  L7NNE  225 

The  Sister  turned  to  gain  intelligence  if  she  could, 
but  the  confusion  and  noise  were  so  great  that  she 
could  scarcely  hope  to  ascertain  anything  with  cer- 
tainty. A  poor  little  child,  quite  dead,  but  not 
much  disfigured,  had  been  carried  into  the  railway 
shed  and  laid  down  not  far  from  Lady  Isabel.  The 
Sister  took  it  tenderly  up.  "Was  this  your  child?" 
said  she,  turning  to  Lady  Isabel.  "It  is  a  little  angel, 
and  is  beholding  the  face  of  its  Father  in  Heaven." 

It  was  the  ill-starred  child  of  Lady  Isabel;  she 
pressed  its  little  face  to  her  bosom,  and  her  first  feel- 
ing was  a  deep  thankfulness  that  it  had  been  so  soon 
taken  away  from  the  evil  to  come.  She  believed  she 
was  to  die  also  in  the  space  of  a  few  hours,  or  less; 
and  the  dull,  apathetic  indifference  to  all  belonging  to 
this  life,  which  generally  sets  in  with  the  approach  of 
death,  was  stealing  over  her.  She  motioned  to  the 
Sister  to  remove  it,  saying  softly: 

"It  is  thus  I  would  have  wished  it  to  be." 

"Have  you  no  message  or  instructions  for  your 
friends?  If  you  will  trust  me  I  will  fulfill  your  wishes. 
Whilst  your  mind  is  preserved  clear  it  will  be  well  to 
settle  your  duties  toward  those  you  are  leaving 
behind."  The  Sister  had  heard  what  the  doctor  said 
of  Lady  Isabel's  condition. 

"All  w^ho  ever  knew  me  will  rejoice  to  hear  that  I 
am  no  more,"  said  Isabel.  "My  death  will  be  the  only 
reparation  I  can  offer  for  the  grief  and  shame  my  life 
has  brought  on  all  who  had  the  evil  fortune  to  belong 
to  me.     You  understand,  I  have  been  a  great  sinner." 

"Try  to  accept  death  as  a  just  recom.pense  for  your 
sins — make  in  this  last  momient  an  act  of  faith  and 
obedience  by  uniting  your  own  will  with  His  who 
sends  this  suffering ;  it  is  then  changed  from  the 
nature  of  punishment  into  a  blessing.  Our  sorrows 
are  the  gifts  of  the  Almighty,  no  less  than  our 
joys." 

* '  I  will ;  I  have  taken  up  my  cross, ' '  said  Lady  Isabel, 
faintly,  for  the  pain  of  her  injuries  was  beginning  to 
make  itself  felt. 

15  Lynne 


226  FAST  LYNNE 

iir^'n^"  ^  ^^^^®  ^°  ^^^  ^^®  ^°^  y^^'^'  ^^^^^  the  Sister 
Tell  me  now,  whilst  you  can  think  of  it." 

,  ''.^^^^  yo^^  paper  and  writing  things  at  hand? 
Write  then— direct  the  letter  first,  to  the  Earl  of 
Mount— stay!"  she  interrupted,  feeling  how  undesir- 
able It  was  to  make  known  her  private  affairs,  even  m 
that  strange  place.  Besides,  from  the  injury  to  her 
face,  she  could  only  speak  with  the  greatest  difficultv 
Could  I  not  write  a  line  myself.  I  think  I  could  'ir 
you  will  hold  the  paper  before  me;  my  hands  a^e  not 
injured;  my  intellect  is  clear." 

The  compassionate  Sister  complied,  and  Lady  Isabel 
contrived  to  scrawl  a  few  words  as  she  lay  first  direct- 
ing the  letter  to  the  earl's  town  house.      They  were  to 
the  effect  that  she  was  dying  from  the  fatal  injuries  of 
the  railvvay  accident;  that  her  baby  was  killed,  and  its 
nurse.     She  thanked   Lord   Mount  Severn  for  all  his 
goodness  to  her;  she  said  she  was  glad  to  die,  to  deliver 
him  and  all  who  belonged   to  her  from   the   disgrace 
and  shame  she  had   been   to  them.      "Go  to  Mr   Car- 
lyle,"  she  continued,  "say  that   I  humbly  beo-  him  to 
forgive  me;  that  I  also  beg  the  forgiveness  of  his  chil- 
dren when  they  shall  be  old  enough  to  know  the  crime 
I  have  committed  against  them;  tell  him  I  repent,  and 
I   have    repented    bitteriy— there    are    no  words    to 
express   that  bitterness."      She  had  written  so  far 
when  the  torture  of  pain,  which  had  begun  to  make 
itself  more  and  more  felt,  was  becoming  intolerable 
Gathering  her  strength  for  a  last  effort,  she  wrote  in 
characters  like  those  that  one  on  the  rack  mi^ht  have 
^JZ     -Q    ^^^f^ssj^^. /'Forgive;   Isabel,"  and  whis- 
pered :      Send  it  when  I  am  dead-not  before ;  and  add 
a  few  words  of  confirmation." 

When  at  length  the  surgeon  came  up  to  Lady  Isabel 
to_  examine  more  minutely  the  injuries  she  had  sus- 
w.T^'  !.  Tu  ''^''^^^  insensible,  and  they  thought  she 
'TeJZ\  ^^%'^'^  '^  to  the  Sister,  who  was  then 
.neelmg  beside  her  repeating  the  prayers  appointed 
for  the  passing  soul.  She  finished  them  and  retired 
to  a  aistance,  otner  sufferers  claiming  her  services 


EAST  LYNNE  227 

She  did  not  return  to  Lady  Isabel,  whom  she  fully 
believed  to  be  dead;  and  she  dispatched  the  letter, 
writing  in  it,  as  requested,  some  words  of  confirma- 
tion. The  dead  were  buried  and  a  special  mass  was 
said  for  them.  The  survivors  were  sent  to  the  hos- 
pital; all  that  could  be  done  for  them  was  done;  neither 
skill  nor  kindness  being  wanting. 

Lady  Isabel  recovered  her  consciousness,  and  found 
herself  lying  on  a  pallet  in  a  ward  in  the  hospital.  It 
was  long  before  she  could  recall  what  had  happened, 
or  understood  that  she  had  not  died.  The  surgeons,  on 
further  inspection,  had  found  life  still  lingering  in  her 
shattered  frame.  The  injuries  were  terrible  enough, 
but  not  of  necessity  fatal,  though  the  prospect  of 
recovery  was  faint.  It  would  have  been  cruel  to 
resort  to  an  operation  with  such  slender  chances  of 
success,  and  they  tried  other  means,  which,  to  the 
honor  and  glory  of  their  skill,  promised  to  succeed. 
Lady  Isabel  was  still  fluctuating  between  life  and 
death;  but  the  tide  began  at  length  slowly  to  set  in 
toward  life.  She  remained  three  months  in  the  hos- 
pital before  she  could  be  removed.  The  change  that 
had  passed  over  her  in  those  three  months  was  little 
less  than  death  itself;  no  one  could  have  recognized  in 
the  pale,  thin,  shattered,  crippled  invalid,  she  who 
had  been  known  as  Lady  Isabel  Vane. 

The  letter  was  duly  delivered  at  the  town  house  for 
Lord  Mount  Severn,  as  addressed.  The  countess  was 
sojourning  there  for  a  few  days;  she  had  quitted  it 
after  the  season,  but  some  business,  or  pleasure,  had 
called  her  again  to  town.  Lord  Vane  was  with  her, 
but  the  earl  was  in  Scotland.  They  were  at  breakfast, 
she  and  her  son,  when  the  letter  was  brought  in; 
eightpence  to  pay.  Its  strangely  written  address,  its 
foreign  aspect,  its  appearance  altogether,  strangely 
excited  her  curiosity ;  in  her  own  mind  she  believed  she 
had  dropped  upon  a  nice  little  conjugal  mare's  nest. 

"I  shall  open  this,"  cried  she. 

"Why,  it  is  addressed  to  papa!"  exclaimed  Lord 
Vane,  who  possessed  all  his  father's  notions  of  honor. 


228  EAST  LYNNE 

''But  such  an  odd  letter!  It  may  require  an  imme- 
diate answer;  or  is  some  begging  petition,  perhaps. 
Go  on  with  your  breakfast." 

Lady  Mount  Severn  opened  the  letter,  and  with 
some  difficulty  spelt  through  its  contents.  They 
shocked  even  her. 

"How  dreadful!"  she  uttered,  in  the  impulse  of  the 
moment. 

"What  is  dreadful?"  asked  Lord  Vane. 

"Lady  Isabel — Isabel  Vane — you  have  not  forgotten 
her?" 

"Forgotten  her!"  he  echoed.  "Why,  mamma,  I 
must  possess  a  funny  mxcmory  to  have  forgotten  her 
already." 

"She  is  dead.  She  has  been  killed  in  a  railway  acci- 
dent in  France." 

His  large  eyes,  honest  and  true  as  they  had  been  in 
childhood,  filled  and  his  face  flushed.  He  said  noth- 
ing, for  emotion  was  strong  within  him.  "But,  shock- 
ing as  it  is,  it  is  better  for  her,"  went  on  the  countess; 
"for,  poor  creature,  what  could  her  future  life  have 
been?" 

"Oh,  don't  say  it!"  impetuously  broke  out  the 
young  viscount.  "Killed  in  a  railway  accident,  and 
for  you  to  say  that  it  is  better  for  her!" 

"So  it  is  better,"  said  the  countess.  "Don't  go  into 
heroics,  William.  You  are  quite  old  enough  to  know 
that  she  had  brought  misery  upon  herself  and  disgrace 
upon  all  connected  with  her.  No  one  could  ever  have 
taken  notice  of  her  again." 

"I  would,"  said  the  boy,  stoutly. 

Lady  Mount  Severn  smiled  derisively. 

"I  would.  I  never  liked  anybody  in  the  world  half 
so  much  as  I  liked  Isabel." 

"That's  past  and  gone.  You  could  not  have  con- 
tinued to  like  her  after  the  disgrace  she  wrought." 

"Somebody  else  wrought  more  of  the  disgrace  than 
she  did;  and,  had  1  been  a  man,  I  would  have  shot 
him  dead,"  flashed  the  viscount. 

"You  don't  know  anything  about  it." 


EAST  LYNNE  229 

'* Don't  I!"  he  returned,  not  over-dutifully.  But 
Lady  Mount  Severn  had  not  brought  him  up  to  be 
dutiful. 

"May  I  read  the  letter,  mamma?"  he  demanded, 
after  a  pause. 

"If  you  can  read  it,"  she  replied,  tossing  it  to  him. 
"She  dictated  it  when  she  was  dying." 

Lord  Vane  took  the  letter  to  a  window  and  stayed 
looking  over  it  for  some  time ;  the  countess  eat  an  egg 
and  a  plate  of  ham  meanwhile.  Presently  he  came 
back  with  it,  folded,  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 

"You  will  forward  it  to  papa  to-day?"  he  ob- 
served. 

"I  shall  forward  it  to  him.  But  there's  no  hurry; 
and  I  don't  exactly  know  where  your  papa  may  be.  I 
shall  send  the  notice  of  her  death  to  the  papers;  and 
am  glad  to  do  it;  it  is  a  blight  removed  from  the 
family." 

"Mamma,  I  do  think  you  are  the  unkindest  woman 
that  ever  breathed!" 

"I'll  give  you  something  to  call  me  unkind  for,  if 
you  don't  mind,"  retorted  the  countess,  her  color 
rising,  "Dock  you  of  your  holiday  and  pack  you  back 
to  school  to-day." 

A  few  mornings  after  this  Mr.  Carlyle  left  East 
Lynne  and  proceeded  to  his  office, as  usual.  Scarcely 
was  he  seated  when  Mr.  Dill  entered,  and  Mr.  Carlyle 
looked  at  him  inquiringly,  for  it  was  not  Mr.  Carlyle's 
custom  to  be  intruded  upon  by  any  person  until  he  had 
opened  his  letters;  then  he  would  ring  for  Mr.  Dill. 
The  letters  and  the  Times  newspaper  lay  on  the  table 
before  him.  The  old  gentleman  came  up  in  a  covert, 
timid  sort  of  way,  which  made  Mr.  Carlyle  look  all 
the  more. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  will  you  let  me  ask  if  you 
have  heard  any  particular  news?" 

Old  Dill  laid  his  hand  upon  the  Times  newspaper. 
"It's  here,  Mr.  Archibald,  in  the  column  of  the  deaths; 
the  first  on  the  list.  Please  prepare  yourself  a  little 
before  you  look  at  it." 


230  EAST  LYNNE 

He  shuffled  out  quickly,  and  Mr.  Carlyle  as  quickly 
unfolded  the  paper.  It  was,  as  old  Dill  said,  the  first 
on  the  list  of  deaths. 

"At  Cammere,  in  France,  on  the  i8th  inst.,  Isabel 
Mary,  only  child  of  William,  late  Earl  of  Mount 
Severn." 

Clients  called;  Mr.  Carlyle's  bell  did  not  ring;  an 
hour  or  two  passed,  and  old  Dill  protested  that  Mr. 
Carlyle  was  engaged  until  he  could  protest  no  longer. 
He  went  in  deprecatingly.  Mr.  Carlyle  sat  yet  with 
the  newspaper  before  him,  and  the  letters  unopened 
at  his  elbow. 

"There's  one  or  two  who  will  come  in,  Mr.  Archi- 
bald, who  will  see  you;  what  am  I  to  say?" 

Mr.  Carlyle  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  as  if  his 
wits  had  been  in  the  next  world.  Then  he  swept  the 
newspaper  from  before  him,  and  was  the  calm,  col- 
lected man  of  business  again. 
p  As  the  news  of  Lady  Isabel's  marriage  had  first 
'  come  to  the  knowledge  of  Lord  Mount  Severn  through 
the  newspapers,  so,  singular  to  say,  did  the  tidings  of 
her  death.  The  next  post  brought  him  the  letter, 
which  his  wife  had  tardily  forwarded.  But,  unlike 
Lady  Mount  Severn,  he  did  not  take  her  death  so 
entirely  upon  trust;  he  knew  that  mistakes  are  often 
made  in  these  reports  from  a  distance,  and  he  deemed 
it  incumbent  on  him  to  make  inquiries.  He  wrote 
imm.ediately  to  the  authorities  of  the  town  asking  for 
particulars,  and  whether  she  was  really  dead. 

He  received,  in  due  course,  a  satisfactory  answer; 
satisfactory  in  so  far  as  that  it  set  his  doubts  entirely 
at  rest.  He  had  inquired  after  her  by  her  proper 
name  and  title,  "La  Dame  Isabelle  Vane,"  and  as  the 
\  authorities  could  find  none  of  the  survivors  owning 
■-  that  name,  they  took  it  for  granted  she  was  dead. 
They  wrote  him  word  that  the  child  and  nurse  whom 
he  mentioned  were  killed  on  the  spot;  two  ladies  who 
had  occupied  the  same  compartment  of  the  carriage  had 
since  died,  one  of  whom  was  no  doubt  the  mother,  the 
lady  for  whom  he  inquired.    She  was  dead  and  buried, 


EAST  LYNNE  231 

sufficient  money  having  been  found  upon  her  person 
to  defray  the  few  necessary  expenses.  It  will  easily 
be  comprehended  that  the  lady  of  whom  they  spoke 
was  one  of  those  who  had  been  in  the  same  carriage 
as  Lady  Isabel,  and  who  had  died.  . 

Thus,  through  no  intention  of  Lady  Isabel,  news  of  / 
her  death  went  forth  to  Lord  Mount  Severn  and  to  the 
world.  Her  first  intimation  that  she  was  regarded  as 
dead  was  through  a  copy  of  that  very  day's  Times  seen 
by  Mr.  Carlyle,  seen  by  Lord  Mount  Severn.  An 
English  traveler  who  had  been  amongst  the  sufferers 
and  lay  in  the  hospital  received  the  English  news- 
papers, and  sometimes  lent  them  to  her  to  read.  She 
vv^as  not  traveling  under  her  own  name ;  she  left  that 
behind  her  vv^hen  she  left  Grenoble ;  she  had  rendered 
her  own  too  notorious  to  risk  the  chance  recognition 
of  travelers;  and  the  authorities  did  not  suspect  that 
the  quiet,  unobtrusive  Madame  Vine,  slowly  recover- 
ing at  the  hospital,  was  the  true  Dame  Isabelle  Vane, 
respecting  whom  the  grand  English  Comte  wrote. 

Lady  Isabel  understood  it  at  once ;  that  the  dispatch-  . 
ing  her  letter  had  been  the  foundation  of  the  misap-  / 
prehension;  and  she  began  to  ask  herself  now  why  she 
should  undeceive  Lord  Mount  Severn  and  the  world. 
She  longed,  none  knew  with  what  intense  longing,  to 
be  unknown,  obscure,  totally  unrecognized  by  all; 
none  can  know  it  till  they  have  put  a  barrier  between 
themselves  and  the  world,  as  she  had  done.  She  -  had 
no  longer  the  child  to  support,  she  had  only  herself; 
and  surely  she  could  with  ease  earn  enough  for  that; 
or  she  could  starve;  it  mattered  little  which.  No, 
there  was  no  necessity  for  her  continuing  to  accept  the 
bounty  of  Lord  Mount  Severn,  and  she  would  let  him 
and  everybody  else  continue  to  believe  she  was  dead 
and  be  henceforth  only  Madame  Vine.  A  resolution 
she  adhered  to. 

Thus  the  unhappy  Lady  Isabel's  career  was  looked 
upon  as  run.  Lord  Mount  Severn  forwarded  her  letter 
to  Mr.  Carlyle,  with  the  confirmation  of  her  death, 
which  he  had  obtained  from  the   French   authorities. 


232  EAST  LYNNE 

It  was  a  nine  days'  wonder:  *'That  poor,  erring  Lady 
Isabel  was  dead" — people  did  not  call  her  names  in 
the  very  teeth  of  her  fate — and  then  it  was  over. 

It  was  over.   Lady  Isabel  Vane  was  as  one  forgot- 
ten. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

AN   UNEXPECTED  VISITOR   AT   EAST   LYNNE 

There  went,  sailing  up  the  avenue  to  East  Lynne,  a 
lady,  one  windy  afternoon.  If  not  a  lady,  she  was 
attired  as  one ;  a  flounced  dress,  and  a  stylish  looking 
shawl,  and  a  white  veil.  A  very  pretty  woman,  tall 
and  slender,  was  she,  and  she  minced  as  she  walked, 
and  coquetted  with  her  head,  and  altogether  contrived 
to  show  that  she  had  quite  as  much  vanity  as  brains. 
She  went  boldly  up  to  the  front  entrance  of  the  house, 
and  boldly  rang  at  it,  drawing  her  white  veil  over  her 
face  as  she  did  so. 

One  of  the  men  servants  answered  it,  not  Peter; 
and,  seeing  somebody  very  smart  before  him,  bowed 
deferentially. 

"Miss  Hallijohn  is  residing  her,  I  believe.  Is  she 
within?" 

*'Who,  ma'am?" 

"Miss  Hallijohn;  Miss  Joyce  Hallijohn,"  somewhat 
sharply  repeated  the  lady,  as  if  impatient  of  any  delay. 
"I  wish  to  see  her." 

The  man  was  rather  taken  aback.  He  had  deemed 
it  a  visitor  to  the  house,  and  was  prepared  to  usher  her 
to  the  drawing-room,  at  least;  but  it  seemed  it  was 
only  a  visitor  to  Joyce.  He  showed  her  into  a  sfnall 
parlor  and  went  upstairs  to  the  nursery,  where  Joyce 
was  sitting  with  Wilson — for  there  had  been  no  change 
in  the  domestic  department  of  East  Lynne.  Joyce 
remained  as  upper  maid,  partially  superintending  the 
servants,  attending  upon  Lucy,  and  making  Miss  Car- 
lyle's  dresses  as  usual.  Wilson  was  nurse  still.  Miss 
Carlyle  had  once  or  twice  begun  upon  the  point  of  the 


EAST  LYNNE  233 

extravagance  of  keeping  both  Wilson  and  Joyce;  but 
Mr.  Carlyle  had  wholly  declined  discussion  upon  the 
subject;  and  somehow  Miss  Carlyle  did  not  find  him 
bend  to  her  will  as  he  once  had  done. 

"Mrs.  Joyce,  there's  a  lady  asking  for  you,"  said 
the  man.     '*I  have  shown  her  into  the  gray  parlor." 

"A  lady  for  me?"  repeated  Joyce.  "Who  is  it? 
Some  one  to  see  the  children,  perhaps?" 

"It's  for  yourself,  I  think.  She  asked  for  Miss 
Hallijohn. " 

Joyce  looked  at  the  man;  but  she  put  down  her 
work  and  proceeded  to  the  gray  parlor.  A  pretty 
woman,  vain  and  dashing,  threw  up  her  white  veil  at 
her  entrance. 

"Well,  Joyce,  how  are  you?" 

Joyce,  always  pale,  turned  paler  still  as  she  gazed  in 
blank  consternation.  Was  it  really  Afy  who  stood 
before  her — Afy  the  erring? 

Afy  it  was.  And  she  stood  there,  holding  out  her 
hand  to  Joyce  with  what  Wilson  would  have  called  all 
the  brass  in  the  world.  Joyce  could  not  reconcile  her 
mind  to  link  her  own  with  it.  "Excuse  me,  Afy,  but 
I  cannot  take  your  hand.  1  cannot  welcome  you  here. 
What  could  have  induced  you  to  come?" 

"If  you   are   going   to   be  upon   the  high  ropes,  it 

seems  I  might  as  well  have  stayed  away,"  was  Afy's 

-reply,  given  in  the   pert  but  good-humored  manner 

she  had  ever  used  to  Joyce.     "My  hand  won't  damage 

yours.     1  am  not  poison!" 

"You  are  looked  upon  in  the  neighborhood  as  worse 
than  poison,  Afy,"  returned  Joyce,  in  a  tone  not  of 
anger,  but  of  sorrow.     "Where's  Richard  Hare?" 

Afy  tossed  her  head.      "Where's  who?"   asked  she. 

"Richard   Hare.      My  question  was  plain  enough." 

"How  should  1  know  where  he  is?  It's  like  your 
impudence  to  mention  him  to  me.  Why  don't  you  ask 
me  where  Old  Nick  is,  and  how  he  does?  I'd  rather 
own  acquaintance  with  him  than  with  Richard  Hare, 
if  I'd  only  my  choice  between  the  two." 

Then  you  have  left  Richard  Hare!  How  long  since?' 


234  EAST  LYNNE 

"I  have  left— what  do  you  say?"  broke  off  Afy, 
whose  lips  were  quivering  ominously  with  suppressed 
passion.  "Perhaps  you'll  condescend  to  explain.  I 
don't  understand." 

"When  you  ]eft  here,  Afy,  did  you  not  go  after  Rich- 
ard Hare? — did  you  not  join  him?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Joyce,"  flashed  Afy,  her 
face  indignant  and  her  voice  passionate,  "I  have  put 
up  with  some  things  from  you  in  my  time,  but  human 
nature  has  its  limits  of  endurance,  and  I  won't  bear 
that.  I  have  never  set  eyes  on  Richard  Hare  since 
that  night  of  horror.  I  wish  I  could,  I'd  help  to  hang 
him." 

Joyce  paused.  The  belief  that  Afy  was  with  him 
had  been  long  and  deeply  imbued  within  her;  it  was 
the  long-continued  and  firm  conviction  of  all  West 
Lynne,  and  a  settled  belief  such  as  that  is  not  easily 
shaken.  Was  Afy  telling  her  the  truth?  She  knew 
her  propensity  for  making  false  statements,  when  they 
served  to  excuse  herself. 

"Afy,"  she  said  at  length,  "let  me  understand  you. 
When  you  left  tl^is  place,  was  it  not  to  share  Richard 
Hare's  flight?     Have  you  not  been  living  with  him?" 

"No,"  burst  forth  Afy,  with  kindling  eyes.  "Liv- 
ing with  him!  with  our  father's  murderer!  Shame 
upon  you,  Joyce  Hallijohnt  you  must  be  precious 
wicked  yourself  to  suppose  it." 

"If  I  have  judged  you  wrongly,  Afy,  I  sincerely 
beg  your  pardon.  Not  only  myself,  but  the  whole  of 
West  Lynne  believed  you  were  with  him;  and  the 
thought  has  caused  me  pain  night  and  day." 

"What  a  cannibal-minded  set  you  must  all  be,  then!" 
was  Afy's  indignant  rejoinder. 

"Not  one  in  the  place  but  thought  so,  with  the 
exception  of  Mr.  Carlyle,"  proceeded  Joyce.  "He  has 
said  two  or  three  times  to  me  that  he  should  not  think 
you  went  to  Richard   Hare,  or  were  living  with  him." 

"Mr.  Carlyle  has  more  sense  than  all  the  rest  of 
West  Lynne  put  together,"  complacently  observed 
Afy.     "Living  with  Richard  Hare!     Why,  I'd  rather 


EAST  LYNNE  235 

go  and  live  with  a  scalping  red  Indian,  who  goes  about 
with  his  body  tattooed  in  place  of  clothes,  and  keeps 
sixteen  wives.  But  let's  talk  of  something  else;  the 
subject  invariably  gives  me  the  shivers.  Who  is  mis- 
tress here?" 

"Miss  Carlyle. " 

**Oh !  I  might  have  guessed  that.  Is  she  as  fierce  as 
ever?" 

"There  is  little  alteration  in  her." 

"And  there  won't  be  on  this  side  the  grave.  I  say, 
Joyce,  I  don't  want  to  encounter  her;  she  might  set  on 
at  me  like  she  has  done  many  a  time  in  the  old  days. 
Little  love  was  there  lost  between  me  and  Corny  Car- 
lyle." 

"You  need  not  fear  meeting  her.  She  is  away ;  gone 
to  Lynneborough  for  a  week's  visit." 

"That's  good  news  for  a  rainy  day!  Then  who  acts 
as  mistress  while  she's  absent?" 

"I  give  the  orders,"  said  Joyce.  "Master  interferes 
very  little." 

"Will  he  marry  again?"  went  on  Afy. 

"How  can  I  tell?  There  appears  no  probability  of  it 
at  present.  A  few  weeks  or  months  ago  a  rumor  arose 
that  he  was  to  marry  Miss  Louisa  Dobede,  but  it  died 
away  again. ' ' 

"Louisa  Dobede!  one  of  that  ugly  old  baronet's 
daughters?" 

"Yes.     But  Sir  John  Dobede  is  not  ugly." 

"Not  ugly!  Why,  he  has  got  a  nose  as  long  as  a 
foundry  chimney.  Wei),  one  would  think  Mr.  Carlyle 
had  had  enough  of  marrying,'* 

"Lady  Isabel  is  dead,"  interrupted  Joyce,  hastily. 

"So  is  Queen  Anne.  What's  the  good  of  telling  me 
news  that  all  the  world  knows?" 

"I  reminded  you  that  she  was  dead  that  you  might 
not  speak  against  her,"  said  Joyce.  "Whatever  may 
have  been  Lady  Isabel's  failings,  they  are  buried  in 
her  grave. ' ' 

"Buried  or  not,  their  remembrance  lasts,"  cried  Afy, 
"and  you  may  as  well  try  to  stop  the  sun's  shining  as 


236  .  EAST  LYNNE 

to  stop  folks  giving  their  opinions.  East  Lynne  must 
have  been  wen  rid  of  her— such  a  canker  as  that!" 

*'Afy,"  said  Joyce,  ''I  loved  my  mistress  and  I  love 
her  memory  stilf,  in  spite  of  what  has  taken  place. 
If  you  are  to  speak  against  her  it  must  be  in  some 
other  house." 

"Have  it  your  ov/n  way, "  rejoined  Afy,  and  they 
fell  to  talking  of  other  matters. 

When  Mr.  Carlyle  returned  home  Joyce  sought  him, 
and  acquainted  him  with  what  had  happened;  that  Afy 
was  come;  was  maid  to  Lady  Mount  Severn;  and, 
above  all,  that  she  had  never  been  with  Richard 
Hare. 

Later  in  the  evening,  after  Mr.  Carlyle's  dinner,  a 
message  came  that  Afy  was  to  go  to  him.  Accord- 
ingly she  proceeded  to  his  presence.  '*So,  Afy,  you 
have  returned  to  let  West  Lynne  know  that  you  are 
alive.     Sit  down." 

*'West  Lynne  may  go  a- walking  in  future,  sir,  for 
all  the  heed  I  shall  take  of  it,"  retorted  Afy.  "A  set 
of  wicked-minded  scandalmongers  to  take  and  say  I 
had  gone  off  after  Richard  Hare!" 

"You  should  not  have  gone  off  at  all,  Afy." 

"Well,  sir,  that  was  my  business,  and  I  chose  to  go. 
I  could  not  stop  in  the  cottage  after  that  night's  work.  " 

"There  is  a  mystery  attaching  to  that  night's  work, 
Afy,"  observed  Mr.  Carlyle;  "a  mystery  that  I  cannot 
fathom.     Perhaps  you  can  help  me  out." 

"What  mystery,  sir?"  returned  Afy. 

Mr.  Carlyle  leaned  forward,  his  arms  on  the  table ; 
Afy  had  taken  a  chair  at  the  other  end  of  it.  "Who 
was  it  that  committed  the  murder?"  he  demanded,  in 
a  grave  and  somewhat  imperative  tone.  Afy  stared 
some  moments  before  she  replied,  evidently  astonished 
at  the  question.  "Who  committed  the  murder,  sir?" 
she  uttered  at  length.  "Richard  Hare  committed  it. 
Everybody  knows  that." 

"Did  you  see  it  done?" 

"No,"  replied  Afy.  "If  I  had  seen  it,  the  fright 
and  horror  would  have  killed  me.    Richard  Hare  quar- 


EAST  LYNNE  237 

reled  with  my  father,  and  drew  the  gun  upon  him  in 
his  passion. " 

"You  assume  this  to  have  been  the  case,  Afy,  as 
others  have  assumed  it.  I  do  not  think  it  was  Richard 
Hare  who  killed  your  father." 

"Not  Richard  Hare!"  exclaimed  Afy,  after  a  pause. 
"Then  who  do  you  think  did  it,  sir?     1?" 

"Nonsense,  Afy." 

"I  know  he  did'  it,"  proceeded  Afy.  "It  is  true  that 
I  did  not  see  it  done,  but  I  know  it  for  all  that.  I 
know  it,  sir." 

"You  cannot  know  it,  Afy." 

"I  do  know  it,  sir;  I  would  not  assert  it  to  you  if  I 
did  not.  If  Richard  Hare  were  here  present  before 
us  and  swore  till  he  was  black  in  the  face  that  it  was 
not  he,  I  could  convict  him." 

"By  what  means?" 

"I  had  rather  not  say,  sir.  But  you  may  believe 
me,  for  I  am  speaking  truth." 

"There  was  another  friend  of  yours  present  that 
evening,  Afy,  Lieutenant  Thorn." 

Afy's  face  turned  crimson;  she  was  evidently  con- 
fused. But  Mr.  Carlyle's  speech  and  manner  were 
authoritative,  and  she  saw  that  it  would  be  useless  to 
attepmt  to  trifle  with  him. 

"I  know  he  was,  sir.  A  young  chap,  who  used  to 
ride  over  some  evenings  to  see  me.  He  had  nothing 
to  do  with  what  occurred." 

"Where  did  he  ride  from?" 

"He  was  stopping  with  some  friends  at  Swainson. 
He  was  nobody,  sir." 

"What  was  his  name?"  questioned  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"Thorn,"  said  Afy. 

"I  mean  his  real  name.  Thorn  was  an  assumed 
name." 

"Oh,  dear  no,"  returned  Afy.  "Thorn  was  his 
name." 

Mr.  Carlyle  paused  and  looked  at  her. 

"Afy,  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  Thorn  was  only 
an  assumed  name.     Now,  I  have  a  motive  for  wishing 


238  EAST  LYNNE 

to  know  his  real  one,  and  you  would  very  much  oblige 
me  by  confiding  it  to  me.     What  was  it?" 

*'I  don't  know  that  he  had  any  other  name,  sir;  I 
am  sure  he  had  no  other,"  persisted  Afy.  "He  was 
Lieutenant  Thorn  then,  and  he  was  Captain  Thorn 
afterward." 

'*You  have  seen  him  since?" 

"Once  in  a  way  we  have  met." 

''Where  is  he  now?" 

"Now!  Oh,  my  goodness,  I  don't  know  anything 
about  him  now!"  said  Afy.  "I  have  not  heard  of  him 
or  seen  him  for  a  long  while.  I  think  I  heard  some- 
thing about  his  going  to  India  with  his  regiment." 

"What  regiment  is  he  in?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Afy.  "Is 
not  one  regiment  the  same  as  another?  They're  all 
in  the  arm.y,  aren't  they,  sir?" 

"Afy,  I  must  find  this  Captain  Thorn.  Do  you 
know  anything  of  his  family?"  Afy  shook  her  head. 
"I  don't  think  he  had  any.  I  never  heard  him  mention 
so  much  as  a  brother  or  a  sister." 

"And  you  persist  in  saying  his  name  was 
Thorn?" 

"I  persist  in  it  because  it  was  his  name.  I  am  pos- 
itive it  was  his  name.  " 

"Afy,  shall  I  tell  you  why  I  want  to  find  him?  I 
believe  that  it  was  he  who  murdered  your  father ;  not 
Richard  Hare. " 

Afy's  mouth  and  eyes  gradually  opened,  and  her 
face  turned  hot  and  cold  alternately.  Then  passion 
mastered  her,  and  she  burst  forth: 

"It's  a  lie!  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  but  whoever 
told  you  that  told  you  a  lie.  Thorn  had  no  more  to 
do  with  it  than  I  had.     I'll  swear  to  it." 

"I  tell  you,  Afy,  I  believe  Thorn  to  have  been  the 
man.  You  were  not  present;  you  cannot  know  who 
actually  did  it." 

"Yes,  I  can  and  do  know,"  said  Afy,  bursting  into 
tears  of  hysterical  passion.  "Thorn  was  with  me  when 
it  happened ;   so  it  could  not  have  been  him.     It  was 


EAST  LYNNE  239 

that  wicked  Richard  Hare.  Sir!  have  I  not  said  that 
I'll  swear  to  it?" 

"Thorn  was  with  you!— at  the  moment  of  the  mur- 
der?" repeated  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"Yes,  he  was,"  shrieked  Afy,  nearly  beside  herself 
with  emotion.  "Whoever  has  been  trying  to  put  it 
off  Richard  Hare  and  on  to  him  is  a  wicked,  false- 
hearted wretch!  It  was  Richard  Hare,  and  nobody 
else,  and  I  hope  he'll  be  hung  for  it  yet." 

"You  are  telling  me  truth,  Afy?"  gravely  spoke  Mr. 
Carlyle. 

"Truth!"  echoed  Afy,  flinging  up  her  hands. 
"Would  I  tell  a  lie  over  my  poor  father's  death?  If 
Thorn  had  done  it,  would  I  screen  him,  or  shuffle  it 
off  to  Richard  Hare?     No,  no." 

Mr.  Carlyle  felt  uncertain  and  bewildered.  That 
Afy  was  sincere  in  what  she  said  was  but  too  apparent. 
He  spoke  again,  but  Afy  had  risen  from  her  chair  to 
leave. 

"Locksley  was  in  the  wood  that  evening;  Otway 
Bethel  was  in  it.  Could  either  of  them  have  been  the 
culprit?" 

"No,  sir,"  firmly  retorted  Afy,  "the  culprit  was 
Richard  Hare;  and  I'd  say  it  v/ith  my  last  breath. 
I'd  say  it  because  I  know  it;  though  I  don't  choose  to 
say  how  I  know  it;  time  enough  when  he  gets  taken." 

She  quitted  the  room,  leaving  Mr.  Carlyle  in  a  state 
of  puzzled  bewilderment.  Was  he  to  believe  Afy?  or 
was  he  to  believe  the  bygone  assertion  of  Richard 
Hare? 


240  EAST  LYNiNE 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

A  NIGHT   INVASION   OF   EAST   LYNNE 

In  one  of  the  comfortable  sitting-rooms  of  East 
Lynne  sat  Mr.  Carlyle  and  his  sister  one  inclement 
January  night.  The  contrast  within  and  without  was 
great.  The  warm,  blazing  fire,  the  handsome  carpet 
on  which  it  flickered,  the  exceedingly  comfortable 
arrangement  of  the  furniture,  of  the  room  altogether, 
and  the  light  of  the  chandelier  which  fell  on  all,  pre- 
sented a  picture  of  home  peace,  though  it  may  not 
have  deserved  the  name  of  luxury. 

Mr.  Carlyle  stirred  the  fire  into  a  brighter  blaze, 
and  stood  on  the  hearth  rug.  "I  wonder  if  it  snow? 
still?"  he  exclaimed  to  himself. 

Proceeding  to  the  window,  one  of  those  opening  to 
the  ground,  he  drew  aside  the  half  of  the  warm  crim- 
son curtain.  It  all  looked  dull  and  dark  outside.  Mr. 
Carlyle  could  see  little  what  the  weather  was,  and  he 
opened  the  window  and  stepped  half  out. 

The  snow  was  falling  faster  and  thicker  than  ever. 

Not  at  that  did  Mr.  Carlyle  start  with  surprise,  if  not 

.with   a  more  unpleasant  sensation;   but  at  feeling  a 

man's  hand  touch  his,  and  finding  a  man's  face  nearly 

in  contact  with  his  own. 

"Let  me  come  in,  Mr.  Carlyle,  for  the  love  of  life! 
I  see  you  are  alone.  I'm  dead  beat,  and  I  don't  knovtf 
but  I'm  dodged  also." 

The  tone  struck  familiarly  on  Mr.  Carlyle 's  ear. 
He  drew  back  mechanically;  a  thousand  perplexinjRf 
sensations  overwhelmed  him,  and  the  man  followed 
him  into  the  room.  A  white  man,  as  Lucy  had  called 
to  her  father.  Ay,  for  he  had  been  hours  and  hours 
on  foot  in  the  snow;  his  hat,  his  clothes,  his  eyebrows, 
his  large  whiskers,  all   were  white.     *'Lock  the  door. 


EAST  LYNNE  241 

sir,"  were  his  first  words.  Need  you  be  told  that  it 
was  Richard  Hare? 

Mr.  Carlyle  fastened  the  window,  drew  the  heavy 
curtains  across  it,  and  turned  rapidly  to  lock  the  two 
doors.  For  there  were  two  to  the  room,  one  of  them 
leading  into  the  adjoining  one.  Richard,  meanwhile, 
took  off  his  wet  smock-frock — the  old  smock-frock  of 
former  memory — his  hat,  and  his  false  black  whiskers, 
wiping  the  snow  from  the  latter  with  his  hand. 

"Richard,"  uttered  Mr.  Carlyle,  "I  am  thunder- 
struck.    I  fear  you  have  done  wrong  to  come  here. " 

"I  cut  off  from  London  at  a  moment's  notice," 
replied  Richard,  who  was  literally  shivering  with  the 
cold.  "I'm  dodged,  Mr.  Carlyle;  the  police  are  after 
me,  set  on  by  that  wretch.  Thorn." 

Mr.  Carlyle  turned  to  the  sideboard  and  poured  out 
a  wine  glass  of  brandy.  "Drink  it,  Richard.  It  will 
warm,  you." 

"I'd  rather  have  it  in  some  hot  water,  sir." 

"But  how  am  I  to  get  the  hot  water  brought  in? 
Drink  this  for  now.     Why,  how  you  tremble!" 

"Ah,  a  few  hours  outside  in  that  cold  snow  is  enough 
to  make  the  strongest  man  tremble,  sir.  And  it  lies 
so  deep  in  some  places  that  you  have  to  come  along  at 
a  snail's  pace.  But  I'll  tell  you  about  this  business. 
A  fortnight  ago  1  was  at  a  cab-stand  at  the  West-end, 
talking  to  a  cabrdriver,  when  some  drops  of  rain  came 
down.  A  gentleman  and  lady  were  passing  at  the 
time,  but  1  had  not  paid  any  attention  to  them.  'By 
Jove!'  I  heard  him  exclaim  to  her,  'I  think  we  are 
going  to  have  a  pepper.  We  had  iDctter  take  a  cab, 
my  dear.  *  With  that,  the  man  I  was  talking  to  swung 
open  the  door  of  his  cab,  and  she  got  in — such  a  fair 
young  girl!  I  turned  to  look  at  him,  and  you  might 
just  have  knocked  me  down  with  astonishment,  Mr. 
Carlyle,  it  was  the  man  Thorn." 

"Indeed!" 

"You  thought  I  might  be  mistaken  in  him  that 
moonlight  night;  but  there  was  no  mistaking  him  in 
broad  daylight.     I  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  and  he 

16  Lynne 


242  EAST  LYNNE 

looked  at  me.  He  turned  as  white  as  a  cloth:  perhaps 
I  did;  1  don't  know." 

"Was  he  well  dressed?" 

"Very.  Oh,  there's  no  mistaking  his  position. 
That  he  moves  in  the  higher  circles,  there's  no  doubt. 
The  cab  drove  away  and  I  got  up  behind  it.  The 
driver  thought  boys  were  there,  and  turned  his  head 
and  his  whip,  but  I  made  him  a  sign.  We  didn't  go 
much  more  than  the  length  of  a  street.  1  was  on  the 
pavement  before  Thorn  was,  and  looked  at  him  again ; 
and  again  he  went  white.  I  marked  the  house,  think- 
ing it  was  where  he  lived,  and,  and " 

"Why  did  you  not  give  him  into  custody,  Richard?" 

Richard  shook  his  head.  "And  my  proofs  of  his 
guilt,  Mr.  Carlyle?  I  could  bring  none  against  him; 
no  positive  ones.  No,  I  must  wait  till  I  can  get  proofs 
to  do  that." 

"Is  this  all,  Richard?" 

"All!  I  wish  it  had  been  all.  In  a  week's  time  I 
came  upon  him  again.  It  was  at  night.  He  was  coming 
out  of  one  of  the  theatres,  and  I  went  up  and  stood 
before  him.  'What  do  you  want,  fellow?'  he  asked.  'I 
have  seen  you  watching  me  before  this.'  *I  want  to 
know  your  name,'  I  said;  'that's  enough  for  me  at 
present. '  He  flew  into  a  fierce  passion,  and  swore  that  if 
he  ever  caught  sight  of  me  near  him  again  he  would 
hand  me  over  into  custody.  'And,  remember,  men  are 
not  given  into  custody  for  watching  others,'  he  signifi- 
cantly added.  'I  know  you,  and  if  you  have  any 
regard  for  yourself,  you'll  keep  out  of  my  way.'  He 
got  into  a  private  carriage  as  he  spoke,  and  it  drove 
away;  I  could  see  that  it  had  a  great  coat-of-arms 
upon  it. " 

"When  do  you  say  this  happened?" 

"A  week  ago.  Well,  I  could  not  rest;  I  was  half 
mad,  I  say,  and  I  went  about  still,  trying  if  I  could 
not  discover  his  name  and  who  he  was.  I  did  come 
upon  him  once;  but  he  was  walking  quickly,  arm  in 
arm— with  another  gentleman.  Again  I  saw  him, 
standing  at  the  entrance  to  Tattersalls,  talking  to  the 


EAST  LYNNE  243 

same  gentleman ;  and  his  face  turned  savage — I  believe 
with  fear  as  much  as  anger — when  he  saw  me.  He 
seemed  to  hesitate,  and  then,  as  if  he  acted  in  a  pas- 
sion, suddenly  beckoned  to  a  policeman,  pointed  me 
out  and  said  something  to  him  in  a  fast  tone.  That 
frightened  me,  and  I  slipped  away.  Two  hours  later, 
when  I  was  in  quite  a  different  part  of  the  town,  in 
turning  my  head,  I  saw  the  same  policeman  following 
me.  I  bolted  under  the  horses  of  a  passing  vehicle, 
cut  into  some  turnings  and  passages,  through  into 
another  street,  and  got  up  beside  a  cabman  who  was 
on  his  box,  driving  a  fare  past.  I  reached  my  lodg- 
ings in  safety,  as  I  thought,  but,  happening  to  glance 
into  the  street,  there  I  saw  the  man  again,  standing 
opposite  and  reconnoitering  the  house,  1  had  gone 
home  hungry,  but  this  took  all  my  hunger  away  from 
me.  I  opened  the  box  where  I  keep  my  disguise,  pat 
it  on,  and  got  out  by  back  way.  I  have  been  pretty 
nearly  ever  since  on  my  feet  coming  here ;  I  only  got 
a  lift  now  and  then." 

"But,  Richard,  do  you  know  that  East  Lynne  is  the 
very  worst  place  you  could  have  flown  to?  It  has 
come  to  light  that  you  were  here  before,  disguised  as  a 
farm  laborer." 

"Who  the  deuce  betrayed  that?"  ejaculated 
Richard. 

"1  am  unable  to  tell;  I  cannot  even  imagine.  The 
rumor  was  rife  in  the  place,  and  it  reached  your 
father's  ears.  That  rumor  may  make  people's  wits 
sharper  to  know  you  in  your  disguise  than  they  other- 
wise might  have  been." 

"But  what  was  I  to  do?  I  was  forced  to  come  here 
first,  to  get  a  little  money.  I  shall  fix  myself  in  some 
other  big  town,  far  away  from  London;  Liverpool,  or 
Manchester,  perhaps,  and  see  what  employment  I  can 
get  into,  but  I  must  have  something  to  live  upon  until 
I  get  it.  I  don't  possess  a  penny  piece,"  he  added, 
drawing  out  his  trousers'  pockets  for  the  inspection  of 
Mr.  Carlyle.  "The  last  coppers  I  had,  threepence,  I 
spent  in   bread  and  cheese  and  half  a  pint  of  beer  at 


244  EAST  LYNNE 

midday.  I  have  been  outside  that  window  for  more 
than  an  hour,  sir." 

"Indeed!" 

**As  I  neared  West  Lynne  I  began  to  think  what  I 
should  do.  It  was  of  no  use  trying  to  catch  Barbara's 
attention  on  such  a  night  as  this;  I  had  no  money  to 
pay  for  a  lodging;  so  I  turned  (>;^  here,  hoping  that  I 
might  by  good  luck  drop  upon  you.  There  was  a  little 
partition  in  this  window  curtain^  it  had  not  been  drawn 
close ;  and  through  it  I  could  see  you  and  Miss  Carlyle. 
I  saw  her  leave  the  room;  I  saw  you  come  to  the  win- 
dow and  open  it,  and  then  I  spoke.  Mr.  Carlyle,"  he 
added,  after  a  pause,  "is  this  sort  of  life  to  go  on  with 
me  forever?" 

"I  am  deeply  sorry  for  you,  Richard,"  was  the  sym- 
pathizing answer.     "I  wish  I  could  remedy  it." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

BARBARA'S   HEART   AT   REST 

Barbara  was  sent  for,  and  anxiously  they  consulted 
together,  Miss  Carlyle  of  course  putting  in  her  word. 
Over  and  over  again  did  Barbara  ask  the  particulars 
of  the  slight  interviews  Richard  had  had  with  Thorn; 
over  and  over  again  did  she  openly  speculate  upon 
what  his  name  really  was.  "If  you  could  but  discover 
some  one  whom  he  knows,  and  inquire  it!"  she 
exclaimed. 

"I  have  seen  him  with  one  person,  but  1  can't 
inquire  of  him.  They  are  too  thick  together,  he  and 
Thorn,  and  are  birds  of  a  feather  also,  I  suspect. 
Great  swells,  both." 

"Oh,  Richard,  don't  use  those  expressions.  They 
are  unsuited  to  a  gentleman." 

Richard  laughed  bitterly.     "A  gentleman!" 

"Who  is  it  you  have  seen  Thorn  with?"  inquired 
Barbara. 

"Sir  Francis  Levi^on,"  replied  Richard,  glancing 
at  Miss  Carlyle,  who  drew  in  her  lips  ominously. 


EAST  LYNNE  245 

"With  whom?"  uttered  Barbara,  betraying  complete 
astonishment.     "Do  you  know  Sir  Francis  Levison?" 

"Oh,  yes,  1  know  him.  Nearly  the  only  man  about 
town  that  I  do  know.  " 

Barbara  seemed  lost  in  a  puzzled  revery,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  she  roused  herself  from  it.  "Are 
they  at  all  alike?"  she  asked.  "Very  much  so,  I  sus- 
pect.    Both  bad  men." 

"But  I  meant  in  person." 

"Not  in  the  least.     Except  that  they  are  both  tall.  "^ 

Again  Barbara  sank  in  thought.  Richard's  words 
had  surprised  her.  She  was  aroused  from  it  by  hear- 
ing a  child's  voice  in  the  next  room.  She  ran  into  it, 
and  Miss  Carlyle  immediately  fastened  the  intervening 
door. 

It  was  little  Archibald  Carlyle.  Joyce  had  come  in 
with  the  tray  to  lay  the  luncheon,  and  before  she  could 
lock  the  door  Archibald  ran  in  after  her.  Barbara  lifted 
him  in  her  arms  to  carry  him  back  to  the  nursery. 
"Oh,  you  heavy  boy !"  she  exclaimed.  Archie  laughed. 
"Wilson  says  that,"  he  lisped,  "if  ever  she  has  to 
carry  me. ' ' 

"I  have  brought  you  a  truant,  Wilson!"  cried  Bar- 
bara. 

"Oh,  is  it  you.  Miss  Barbara?  How  are  you,  miss? 
Naughty  boy — ^yes;  he  ran  away  without  my  noticing 
him — he  can  open  the  door  nov/. " 

"You  must  be  so  kind  as  to  keep  him  strictly  in  for 
to-day,"  continued  Barbara,  authoritatively.  "Miss 
Carlyle  i:i  not  well,  and  cannot  be  subjected  to  the 
annoyance  of  his  running  into  her  room." 

Evening  came,  and  the  time  of  Richard's  departure. 
It  V\ras  again  snowing  heavily,  though  it  had  ceased  in 
the  middle  of  the  day.  Money  for  the  present  had 
been  given  to  him;  arrangements  had  been  discussed. 
Mr.  Carlyle  insisted  upon  Richard's  sending  him  his 
address  as  soon  as  he  should  own  one  to  send,  and 
Richard  faithfully  promised.  He  was  in  very  low 
spirits,  almost  as  low  as  Barbara,  who  could  not  con- 
ceal her  tears;  they  dropped  in  silence  on  her   pretty 


246  EAST  LYNNE 

silky  dress.  He  was  smuggled  down  the  stairs,  a  larcfe 
cloak  of  Miss  Carlyle's  enveloping  him,  into  ihe  room 
he  had  entered  by  storm  on  the  previous  night.  Mr. 
Carlyle  held  the  window  open. 

*'Good-by,  Barbara,  dear.  If  ever  you  should  be  able 
to  tell  my  mother  of  this  day,  say  that  my  chief  sor- 
row was  not  to  see  her." 

*'0h,  Richard!"  she  sobbed,  broken-hearted,  "good- 
by.     May  God  be  with  you  and  bless  you!" 

''Farewell,  Richard,"  said  Miss  Carlyle;  "don't  you 
be  fool  enough  to  get  into  any  more  scrapes." 

Last  of  all,  he  wrung  the  hand  of  Mr.  Carlyle.  The 
latter  went  outside  with  him  for  an  instant,  and  their 
leave-taking  was  alone.  Barbara  returned  to  the 
chamber  she  had  quitted.  She  felt  that  she  must 
indulge  in  a  few  moments'  sobbing;  Joyce  was  there, 
but  Barbara  was  sobbing  when  she  entered  it. 

"It  is  hard  for  him.  Miss  Barbara;  if  he  is  really 
innocent." 

Barbara  turned  her  streaming  eyes  upon  her.  "  'If!' 
Joyce,  do  you  doubt  that  he  is  innocent?" 

"I  quite  believe  him  to  be  so  now,  miss.  Nobody 
could  so  solemnly  assert  what  was  not  true.  The 
thing  at  present  will  be  to  find  that   Captain  Thorn." 

"Joyce,"  exclaimed  Barbara,  in  excitement,  seizing 
hold  of  Joyce's  hands,  "I  thought  I  had  found  him;  I 
believed  in  my  own  mind  that  I  knew  who  he  was.  I 
don't  mind  telling  you,  though  I  have  never  before 
spoken  of  it;  and  with  one  thing  or  other  this  night,  I 
feel  just  as  if  I  should  die ;  as  if  I  must  speak.  I  thought 
it  was  Sir  Franci^s  Levison!" 

Joyce  stared  with  all  her  eyes.     "Miss  Barbara!" 

"I  did.  I  have  thought  it  ever  since  the  night  that 
Lady  Isabel  went  away.  My  poor  brother  was  at  West 
Lynne  then ;  he  had  come  for  a  few  hours,  and  he  met 
the  man  Thorn  walking  in  Bean  Lane.  He  was  in 
evening  dress,  and  Richard  described  a  peculiar  motion 
of  his,  the  throwing  off  his  hair  from  his  brow;  he  said 
his  white  hand  and  his  diamond  ring  glittered  in  the 
moonlight.     The  white  hand,    the  ring,  the  motion — 


EAST  LYNNE  247 

for  he  was  always  doing  it — all  reminded  me  of  Cap- 
tain Levison;  and  from  that  hour  until  to-day  I  did 
believe  him  to  be  the  man  Richard  saw.  To-day 
Richard  tells  me  that  he  knows  Sir  Francis  Levison, 
and  that  he  and  Thorn  are  intimate.  What  1  think 
now  is  that  this  Thorn  must  have  paid  a  flying  visit  to 
the  neighborhood  that  night  to  assist  Captain  Levison 
in  the  wicked  work  he  had  on  hand." 

*'How  strange  it  all  sounds!"  uttered  Joyce. 

"And  1  never  could  tell  my  suspicions  to  Mr.  Car- 
lyle!  I  did  not  like  to  mention  Francis  Levison's 
name  to  him." 

Barbara  returned  downstairs.  *'I  must  be  going 
home,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Carlyle.  **It  is  half-past 
seven  and  mamma  will  be  uneasy." 

"Whenever  you  like,  Barbara." 

"But  can  I  not  walk?  1  am  so  sorry  to  take  out  your 
ponies  again,  and  in  this  storm." 

Mr.  Carlyle  laughed.  "Which  would  feel  the  storm 
worst — you  or  the  ponies?" 

But  when  Barbara  got  outside,  she  saw  that  it  was 
not  the  pony  carriage,  but  the  chariot  that  was  in  wait- 
ing for  her.     She  turned  inquiringly  to  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"Did  you  think  I  should  allow  you  to  go  home  in 
an  open  carriage  to-night,  Barbara?" 

"Are  you  coming  also?" 

"I  suppose  I  had  better, "  he  smiled;  "to  see  that 
^you  and  the  carriage  do  not  come  to  harm," 

Barbara  withdrew  to  her  corner  of  the  chariot  and 
cried  silently.  Very,  very  deeply  did  she  mourn  the 
unhappy  situation — the  privations  of  her  brother.  And 
she  knew  that  he  was  one  to  feel  them  deeply.  He 
could  not  battle  with  the  world's  hardships  so  bravely 
as  many  could  have  done.  Mr.  Carlyle  only  detected 
her  emotion  as  they  were  nearing  the  Grove.  He 
leaned  forward,  took  her  hand  and  held  it  betv/een  his. 

"Don't  grieve,  Barbara.  Bright  days  may  be  in 
store  for  Richard  yet."     The  carriage  stopped. 

"You  may  go  back,"  he  said  to  the  servants  when 
he  alighted.     "I  shall  walk  home." 


248  EAST  LYNNE 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Barbara.  "I  do  think  you  intend 
to  spend  the  evening  with  us!  Mamma  will  be  so 
glad!" 

Her  voice  showed  that  she  was  glad  also.  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm  as  they  walked  up 
the  path.  But  Barbara  had  reckoned  without  her 
host.  Mrs.  Hare  was  in  bed,  consequently  could  not 
be  pleased  at  the  visit  of  Mr,  Carlyle.  The  justice 
had  gone  out,  and  she,  feeling  tired  and  not  well, 
thought  she  would  retire  to  rest.  Barbara  stole  into 
her  room,  but  found  her  asleep;  so  that  it  fell  to  Bar- 
bara to  entertain  Mr.  Carlyle. 

They  stood  together  before  the  large  pier-glass,  in 
front  of  the  blazing  fire.  Barbara  was  thinking  over 
the  events  of  the  day.  What  Mr.  Carlyle  was  thinking 
of  was  best  known  to  himself;  his  eyes,  covered  with 
their  drooping  eyelids,  were  cast  upon  Barbara.  There 
was  a  long  silence.  At  length  Barbara  seemed  to  feel 
that  his  gaze  was  on  her,  and  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"Will  you  marry  me,  Barbara?" 

The  words  were  spoken  in  the  quietest,  most 
matter-of-fact  tone,  just  as  if  he  had  said,  "Shall  I 
give  you  a  chair,  Barbara?"  But,  oh!  the  change  that 
passed  over  her  countenance!  the  sudden  light  of  joy; 
the  scarlet  flush  of  emotion  and  happiness.  Then  it 
all  faded  down  to  paleness  and  sadness. 

She  shook  her  head  in  the  negative.  "But  you  are 
very  kind  to  ask  me,"  she  added  in  words. 

"What  is  the  impediment,  Barbara?" 

Another  rush  of  color,  as  before,  and  a  deep  silence. 
Mr.  Carlyle  put  his  arm  round  her,  and  bent  his  face 
on  a  level  with  hers.  "Whisper  it  to  m.e,  Barbara." 
She  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  "Is  it  because  I  once 
married  another?" 

"No,  no.  It  is  the  remembrance  of  that  night — you 
cannot  have  forgotten  it ;  and  it  is  stamped  on  my  brain 
in  letters  of  fire.  I  never  thought  so  to  betray  myself. 
But  for  what  passed  that  night  you  would  not  have?- 
asked  me  now." 

"Barbara!" 


EAST  LYNNE  249 

She  glanced  up  at  him ;  the  tone  was  so  painful. 
"Do  you  know  that  I  love  you?  that  there  is  none 
other  in  the  world  whom  I  would  care  to  marry  but 
you?  Nay,  Barbara,  when  happiness  is  within  our 
reach,  let  us  not  throw  it  away  upon  a  chimera. " 

She  cried  more  softly,  leaning  upon  his  arm.  *' Hap- 
piness?    Would  it  be  happiness  for  you?" 

"Great  and  deep  happiness,"  he  whispered. 

She  read  truth  in  his  countenance,  and  a  sweet  smile 
illumined  her  sunny  features.  Mr.  Carlyle  read  its 
signs.     *'You  love  me  as  much  as  ever,  Barbara?" 

"Far  more;  far  more,"  was  the  murmured  answer, 
and  Mr.  Carlyle  held  her  closer,  and  drew  her  face 
fondly  to  his.  Barbara's  heart  was  at  length  at  rest; 
and  she  had  been  content  to  remain  where  she  was 
forever. 

And  Richard?  Had  he  got  clear  off?  Richard  was 
stealing  along  the  road,  plunging  into  the  snow  by  the 
hedge  because  it  v/as  more  sheltered  there  than  in  the 
beaten  path,  when  his  umbrella  came  in  contact  with 
another  umbrella.  Miss  Carlyle  had  furnished  it  to  him ; 
not  to  protect  his  battered  hat,  but  to  protect  his  face 
from  being  seen  by  the  passers-by.  The  umbrella  he 
encountered  was  an  aristocratic  silk  one,  with  an  ivory 
handle;  Dick's  was  a  democratic  cotton,  with  hardly 
any  handle  at  all;  and  the  respective  owners  had  been 
bearing  on,  heads  down  and  umbrellas  out,  till  they, 
the  umbrellas,  met  smash,  right  underneath  a  gas 
lamp.  Aside  went  each  umbrella,  and  the  antagonists 
stared  at  each  other.  "How  dare  you,  fellow?  Can't 
you  see  where  you  are  going  to?" 

Dick  thought  he  should  have  dropped.  He  would 
have  given  all  the  money  his  pockets  held,  if  the 
friendly  earth  had  but  opened  and  swallowed  him  in. 
For  now,  peering  into  his  face,  was  his  own  father. 
Uttering  an  exclamation  of  dismay,  which  broke  from 
him  involuntarily,  Richard  sped  away  with  the  swift- 
ness of  an  arrow.  Did  Justice  Hare  recognize  the 
tones?  It  cannot  be  said.  He  saw  a  rough,  strange- 
looking  man  with  bushy  black  whiskers,  who  was  evi- 


250     •  EAST  LYNNE 

dently  scared  at  the  sight  of  him.  That  was  nothing; 
for  the  justice,  being  a  justice  and  a  strict  one,  was 
regarded  with  considerable  awe  in  the  parish  by  those 
of  Dick's  apparent  caliber.  Nevertheless,  he  stood 
still  and  gazed  in  the  direction,  until  all  sound  of 
Richard's  footsteps  had  died  away  in  the  distance. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIl 

FOR   THE   SECOND   TIME 

Tears  were  streaming  down  the  face  of  Mrs.  Hare. 
It  was  a  bright  morning  after  the  snow-storm,  so 
bright  that  the  sky  was  blue  and  the  sun  was  shining, 
but  the  snow  lay  deeply  upon  the  ground.  Mrs.  Hare 
sat  in  her  chair,  enjoying  the  brightness,  and  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  stood  near  her.  The  tears  were  of  joy  and  of  grief 
mingled ;  of  grief  at  hearing  that  she  should  at  last 
have  to  part  with  Barbara;  of  joy  that  she  was  going 
to  one  so  entirely  worthy  of  her  as  was  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"Archibald,  she  has  had  a  happy  home  here;  you 
will  render  yours  as  much  so?" 

"To  the  very  utmost  of  my  power." 

"You  will  ever  be  kind  to  her,  ever  cherish  her?" 

"With  my  whole  heart  and  strength.  Dear  Mrs. 
Hare,  I  thought  you  knew  me  too  well  to  doubt  me." 

"Doubt  you?  I  do  not  doubt  you;  I  trust  you  implic- 
itly, Archibald.  Had  the  v/hole  world  laid  themselves 
at  Barbara's  feet,  I  should  have  prayed  that  she  might 
choose  you." 

A  smile  flitted  over  Mr.  Carlyle's  lips.  He  knew  it 
was  what  Barbara  would  have  done. 

"But  Archibald,  what  about  Cornelia?"  resumed 
Mrs.  Hare.  "I  would  not  for  a  moment  interfere  in 
your  affairs,  or  in  the  arrangements  you  and  Barbara 
may  agree  upon;  but  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  mar- 
ried people  are  better  alone." 

"Cornelia  will  quit  East  Lynne, "  said  Mr.  Carlyle. 
"I  have  not  spoken  to  her  yet,  but  I  shall  do  so  now. 
1  have  long  made  my  mind  up  to  that;  that  if  ever  I 


I 


EAST  LYNNE  251 

married  again,  I  and  my  wife  would  live  alone.  It  is 
said  she  interfered  too  much  with  my  former  wife;  nad 
I  suspected  it,  Cornelia  should  not  have  remained  in 
the  house  a  day.  Rest  assured  that  Barbara  shall  not 
be  subjected  to  the  chance." 

"How  did  you  come  over  her?"  demanded  the  jus- 
tice, who  had  already  given  his  gratified  consent,  and 
who  now  entered,  in  his  dressing-gown  and  morning 
wig.  "Others  have  tried  it  on,  and  Barbara  would 
not  listen  to  any  of  them." 

"I  suppose  I  must  have  cast  a  spell  upon  her," 
answered  Mr.  Carlyle,  breaking  into  a  smile. 

Miss  Carlyle's  cold  was  better  that  evening;  in  fact, 
she  seemed  quite  herself  again,  and  Mr.  Carlyle  intro- 
duced the  subject  of  his  marriage.  It  was  after  dinner 
that  he  began  upon  it. 

"Cornelia,  when  I  married  Lady  Isabel  Vane,  you 
reproached  me  severely  with  having  kept  you  in  the 
dark " 

"If  you  had  not  kept  me  in  the  dark,  but  consulted 
me,  as  any  other  Christian  would,  the  course  of  events 
might  have  been  wholly  changed,  and  the  wretched- 
ness and  disgrace  that  fell  on  this  house  been  spared 
to  it,"  fiercely  interrupted  Miss  Carlyle. 

"We  will  leave  the  past,"  he  said,  "and  consider 
the  future.  I  was  about  to  remark  that  I  do  no! 
intend  to  fall  under  your  displeasure  for  the  like 
offense.    I  believe  you  have  never  wholly  forgiven  it." 

"And  never  shall,"  cried  she,  impetuously.  "I  did 
not  deserve  the  slight." 

"Therefore,  almost  as  soon  as  I  know  it  myself,  I 
acquaint  you.  I  am  about  to  marry  a  second  time, 
Cornelia." 

Miss  Carlyle  started  up.  Her  spectacles  dropped 
off  her  nose,  and  a  knitting-box,  which  she  happened 
to  have  on  her  knee,  clattered  to  the  ground.  "What 
did  you  say?"  she  uttered,  aghast. 

"I  am  about  to  marry. " 

**You?" 
"1.     Is  there  anything  so  very  astonishing  in  it?" 


252  EAST  LYNNE 

"For  the  love  of  common  sense,  don't  go  and  make 
such  a  fool  of  yourself !  You  have  done  it  once ;  was 
that  not  enough  for  you,  but  you  must  run  your  head 
into  the  noose  again." 

"Now,  Cornelia,  can  you  wonder  that  I  do  not  speak 
to  you  of  such  things  when  you  meet  me  in  this  way? 
You  treat  me  just  as  you  did  when  I  was  a  child.  It 
is  very  foolish. " 

"When  folks  act  childishly,  they  must  be  treated  as 
children.  I  always  thought  you  were  mad  when  you 
married  before,  but  1  shall  think  you  doubly  mad  now. " 

"Because  you  have  preferred  to  remain  single  and 
solitary  yourself,  is  it  any  reason  why  you  should  con- 
demn me  to  do  the  same?  You  are  happy  alone;  I 
should  be  happier  with  a  wife. " 

"That  she  may  go  and  disgrace  you,  as  the  last  one 
did!"  intemperately  spoke  Miss  Carlyle,  caring  not  a 
Tush  what  she  said  in  her  anger.  Mr.  Carlyle's  brow 
flushed,  but  he  controlled  his  temper. 

* '  No, ' '  he  calmly  replied.  ' '  I  am  not  afraid  of  that,  in 
the  one  I  have  now  chosen  " 

Miss  Corny  gathered  her  knitting  together;  he  had 
picked  up  her  box.  Her  hands  trembled,  and  the 
lines  of  her  face  were  working.  It  was  a  blow  to  her 
as  keen  as  the  other  had  been. 

"Pray,  who  is  it  that  you  have  chosen?"  she  jerked 
forth.   "The  whole  neighborhood  has  been  after  you.  " 

"Let  it  be  who  it  will,  Cornelia,  you  will  be  sure  to 
grumble.  Were  I  to  say  that  it  was  a  royal  princess 
or  a  peasant's  daughter,  you  would  see  grounds  for 
finding  fault. " 

"Of  course  I  should.  I  know  who  it  is — that  stuck- 
up  Louisa  Dobede. " 

"No,  it  is  not.  I  never  had  the  slightest  intention 
of  choosing  Louisa  Dobede ;  nor  she  of  choosing  me. 
I  am  marrying  to  please  myself,  and,  for  a  wife, 
Louisa  Dobede  would  not  please  me." 

"As  you  did  before,"  sarcastically  put  in  Mis^ 
Corny. 

"Yes;  as  I  did  before." 


EAST  LYNNE  253 

*'Well,  can't  you  open  your  mouth,  and  say  who  it 
is?"  was  the  exasperating  rejoinder. 

"It  is  Barbara  -Hare." 

"Who?"  shrieked  Miss  Carlyle. 

"You  are  not  deaf,  Cornelia." 

"Well,  you  are  an  idiot!"  she  exclaimed,  lifting  up 
her  hands  and  eyes. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  but  without  any  signs  of 
irritation. 

"And  so  you  are;  you  are,  Archibald.  To  suffer 
that  girl,  who  has  been  angling  after  you  so  long,  to 
catch  you  at  last." 

"She  has  not  angled  after  me;  had  she  done  so,  she 
would  probably  never  have  been  Mrs.  Carlyle.  What- 
ever passing  fancy  she  may  have  entertained  for  me  in- 
earlier  days,  she  has  shown  no  symptoms  of  it  of  late 
years;  and  I  am  certain  that  she  had  no  more  thought, 
or  idea,  that  1  should  choose  her  for  my  second,  than 
you  had  that  I  should  choose  you.  Others  may  have 
angled  after  me  too  palpably,  but  Barbara  has  not.  ' 

"She  is  a  little  conceited  minx;  as  vain  as  she  is 
high." 

"What  else  have  you  to  urge  against  her?" 

"I  would  have  married  a  girl  without  a  slur — if  I 
must  have  married,"  aggravatingly  returned  Miss 
Corny. 

"Slur?" 

"Slur,  yes!  Dear  me,  is  it  an  honor  to  possess  such 
a  brother?" 

"There  is  no  slur  upon  Barbara.  And  the  time  may 
come  when  it  will  be  taken  off  Richard."  Miss  Corny 
sniffed.  "Pigs  mayfly;  but  I  never  saw  them  try 
at  it." 

"The  next  consideration,  Cornelia,  is  about  your 
residence.  You  will  go  back,  I  presume,  to  your  own 
home." 

Miss  Corny  did  not  believe  her  own  ears.  "Go  back 
to  my  own  home?"  she  exclaimed.  "I  shall  do  noth- 
ing of  the  sort.  I  shall  stop  at  East  Lynne.  What's 
to  hinder  me?'* 


254  EAST  LYNNE 

Mr.  Carlyle  shook  his  head.  "It  cannot  be,"  he 
said,  in  a 'low,  decisive  tone.  "Who  says  so?"  she 
sharply  asked.  "I  do.  Have  you  forgotten  that  night 
— when  she  went  away — the  words  spoken  by  Joyce! 
Cornelia,  whether  they  were  true  or  false,  I  will  not 
subject  another  to  the  chance." 

She  did  not  answer.  Her  lips  only  parted  and 
closed  again.  Somehow  Miss  Carlyle  could  not  bear 
to  be  reminded  of  that  revelation  of  Joyce's ;  it  subdued 
even  her. 

At  this  moment  the  summons  of  a  visitor  was  heard. 
Even  that  excited  the  ire  of  Miss  Carlyle.  "I  wonder 
who's  come  bothering  to-night?"  she  uttered.  Peter 
entered.  "It  is  Major  Thorn,  sir.  I  have  shown  him 
into  the  drawing-room." 

Mr.  Carlyle  was  surprised.  He  proceeded  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  Miss  Carlyle  rang  for  Joyce. 
Strange  to  say,  she  had  no  thought  of  rebelling 
against  the  decree.  An  innate  consciousness  had  long 
been  hers,  that,  should  Mr.  Carlyle  marry  again,  her 
sojourn  in  the  house  would  terminate.  East  Lynne 
was  Mr.  Carlyle's;  she  had  learned  that  he  could  be 
firm  upon  occasions,  and  the  tone  of  his  voice  had  told 
that  this  was  one  of  them. 

"Joyce,"  began  she,  after  her  own  unceremonious 
fashion,  "your  master  is  going  to  make  a  simpleton  of 
himself  a  second  time,  so  I  shall  leave  him  and  East 
Lynne  to  it.  Will  you  go  with  me,  and  be  my  upper 
maid  again?" 

"What,  ma'am?"  exclaimed  Joyce,  in  bewilderment; 
"what  did  you  say  master  was  going  to  do?" 

"To  make  a  simpleton  of  himself,"  irascibly  repeated 
Miss  Carlyle.  "He  is  going  to  tie  himself  np  again 
with  a  wife;  that's  what  he's  going  to  do.  Now,  do 
you  stop  here,  or  will  you  go  with  me?" 

"I  would  go  with  you,  ma'am,  but — but  for  one 
thing." 

"What's  that?" 

"The  promise  I  gave  to  Lady  Isabel.  She  exacted 
it  from  me  when  she  thou<rht  she  was  about  to  die— a 


EAST  LYNInE  255 

promise  that  I  would  remain  with  her  children.  She 
did  not  leave  them  by  death  after  all ;  but  it  comes  to 
the  same  thing." 

"Not  exactly,"  sarcastically  spoke  Miss  Carlyle. 
"But  there's  another  side  of  the  question,  Joyce, 
which  you  may  not  have  looked  at.  When  there  shall 
be  another  mistress  at  East  Lynne,  will  you  be  per- 
mitted to  remain  here?" 

Joyce  considered;  she  could  not  see  her  way  alto- 
gether clear.  "Allow  me  to  give  you  my  answer  a 
little  later,"  she  said  to  Miss  Carlyle. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

ALL   FATE 

"Such  a  journey!"  Major  Thorn  was  saying,  mean- 
while, to  Mr.  Carlyle.  "It  is  my  general  luck  to  get 
ill  weather  when  I  travel.  Rain  and  hail,  thunder 
and  heat,  nothing  bad  comes  amiss,  when  I  am  out. 
The  snow  lay  on  the  rails  I  don't  know  how  thick;  at 
one  station  we  were  detained  two  hours." 

"Are  you  proposing  to  make  any  stay  at  West 
Lynne?" 

"Off  again  to-morrow.  My  leave,  this  time,  is  to 
be  spent  at  my  mother's.  I  may  bestow  a  week  of  it, 
or  so,  on  West  Lynne,  but  am  not  sure.  I  must  be 
back  in  Ireland  in  a  month.  Such  a  horrid  bog-hole 
we  are  quartered  in  just  now!  The  truth  is,  Carlyle, 
a  lady  has  brought  me  here. " 

"Indeed!" 

"lam  in  love  with  Barbara  Hare.  The  little  jade 
has  said  No  to  me  by  letter;  but,  as  Herbert  says, 
there's  nothing  like  urging  your  suit  in  person.  And 
I  have  come  to  do  so." 

Mr.  Carlyle  took  an  instant's  counsel  with  himself, 
and  decided  it  would  be  a  kind  thing  to  tell  the  major 
the  state  of  the  case;  far  more  kind  than  to  subject 
him  to  another  rejection  from  Barbara,  and  to  suffer 
the  facts  to  reach  him  by  common  report. 


256  EAST  LYNNE 

•'Will  you  shoot  me,  major,  if  I  venture  to  tell  you 
that  any  second  application  to  Barbara  would  be 
futile?" 

"She  is  not  appropriated,  is  she?"  hurriedly  cried 
Mr.  Thorn.     "She's  not  married?"' 

"She  is  not  married.     She  is  going  to  be.  " 

"Oh,  that's  just  like  my  unlucky  fate.  And  who 
is  the  happy  man?" 

"You  must  promise  not  to  call  me  out,  if  I  disclose 
his  name." 

"Carlyle!     It  is  not  yourself?" 

"You  have  said  it." 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  It  was  Mr.  Carlyle  who 
broke  it. 

"It  need  not  make  us  the  less  good  friends.  Thorn. 
Do  not  allow  it  to  do  so." 

The  major  put  out  his  hand,  and  grasped  Mr.  Car- 
lyle's.  "No,  by  Jove,  it  sha'n't!  It's  all  fate.  And 
if  she  must  go  to  any  other  besides  me,  I'd  rather  see 
her  yours  than  any  man's  upon  earth.  Were  you 
engaged  when  I  asked  Barbara  to  be  my  wife,  some 
months  ago?" 

"No.     We  have  been  engaged  but  very  recently. " 

"Did  Barbara  betray  to  you  that  I  asked  her?"  pro- 
ceeded Major  Thorn,  a  shade  of  mortification  rising 
to  his  face. 

"Certainly  not;  you  do  not  know  Barbara,  if  you 
fancy  she  could  be  guilty  of  it.  The  justice  managed 
to  let  it  out  to  me  during  an  explosion  of  wrath." 

"Wrath  because  I  asked  for  his  daughter?" 

"Wrath  against  Barbara  for  refusing.  Not  partic- 
ularly at  her  refusing  you, "  added  Mr.  Carlyle,  correct- 
ing himself;  "but  she  was  in  the  habit  of  refusing  all 
who  asked  her,  and  thereby  fell  under  displeasure." 

"Did  she  refuse  you?" 

"No,"  smiled  Mr.  Carlyle,  "she  accepted  me." 

"Ah,  well ;  it's  all  fate,  I  say.  But  she  is  an  uncom- 
mon nice  girl,  and  I  wish  it  had  been  my  luck  to  get 
her." 

"To  go  from  one  subject  to  another,"  resumed  Mr. 


EAST  LYNNE  257 

Carlyle,  "there  is  a  question  I  have  long  thought  to 
put  to  you,  Thorn,  if  we  ever  met  again.  Which  year 
was  it  that  you  were  staying  at  Swainson?" 

Major  Thorn  mentioned  it.  It  was  the  year  of  Halli- 
john's  murder. 

"As  I  thought — in  fact,  knew,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle. 
"Did  you,  while  you  were  stopping  there,  ever  come 
across  a  namesake  of  yours,  one  Thorn?" 

"I  believe  I  did.  But  I  don't  know  the  man  of  my 
own  knowledge,  and  I  saw  him  but  once  only.  I  don't 
think  he  was  living  in  Swainson.  I  never  observed 
him  in  the  town." 

"Where  did  you  meet  with  him?" 

"At  a  roadside  beer-shop,  about  two  miles  from 
Swainson.  I  was  riding  one  day  when  a  fearful  storm 
came  on,  and  I  took  shelter  there.  Scarcely  had  I 
entered  when  another  horseman  rode  up,  and  he  like- 
wise took  shelter — a  tall,  dandified  man,  aristocratic 
and  exclusive.  When  he  departed — for  he  quitted 
first,  the  storm  being  over — I  asked  the  people  who  he 
was.  They  said  they  did  not  know,  though  they  often 
saw  him  ride  by;  but  a  man  who  was  in  there,  drink- 
ing, said  he  was  a  Captain  Thorn.  The  same  man,  by 
the  way,  volunteered  the  information  that  he  came 
from  a  distance,  somewhere  near  West  Lynne;  I 
remember  that." 

"That  Captain  Thorn  did?" 

"No;  that  he  himself  did.  He  appeared  to  know 
nothing  of  Captain  Thorn  beyond  the  name." 

It  seemed  to  be  ever  so !  Scraps  of  information,  but] 
nothing  tangible — nothing  to  lay  hold  of,  or  to  know! 
the  man  by.     Would  it  be  thus  always?  J 

"Should  you  recognize  him  again,  were  you  to  see 
him?"  resumed  Mr.  Carlyle,  awaking  from  his  revery. 

"I  think  I  should.  There  is  something  peculiar  in 
his  countenance,  and  I  remember  it  well  yet." 

"Were  you  by  chance  to  meet  him,  and  discover  his] 
real  name- — for  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  Thorn,  j 
the  one  he  went  by  then,  was  an  assumed  one — willj 
you  oblige  me  by  letting  me  know  it?" 

17  Lynne 


258  EAST  LYNNE 

"With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,"  replied  the  major. 
"The  chances  are  against  it,  though,  confined  as  I  am 
to  that  confounded  sister  country.  Other  regiments 
get  the  luck  of  being  quartered  in  the  metropolis,  or 
near  it;  ours  doesn't." 

When  Major  Thorn  had  departed,  and  Mr.  Carlyle 
was  about  to  return  to  the  room  where  he  left  his 
sister,  he  was  interrupted  by  Joyce. 

"Sir,"  she  began,  "Miss  Carlyle  tells  me  that  there 
is  going  to  be  a  change  at  East  Lynne. " 

The  words  took  Mr.  Carlyle  by  surprise.  "Miss  Car- 
lyle has  been  in  a  hurry  to  tell  you!"  he  remarked,  a 
certain  haughty  displeasure  in  his  tone. 

"She  did  not  speak  for  the  sake  of  telling  me,  sir; 
but  I  fancy  she  was  thinking  about  her  own  plans. 
She  inquired  whether  I  would  go  with  her  when  she 
left,  or  whether  I  meant  to  remain  at  East  Lynne.  I 
could  not  answer  her,  sir,  until  I  had  spoken  to  you." 

"Well?"  said  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"I  gave  a  promise,  sir,  to — to — my  late  lady,  that  I 
would  remain  with  her  children  so  long  as  I  was  per- 
mitted; she  asked  it  of  me  when  she  was  ill;  when  she 
thought  she  was  going  to  die.  What  I  would  inquire 
of  you,  sir,  is,  whether  the  changes  will  make  any 
difference  to  my  staying?" 

"No,"  he  decisively  replied.  "  I  also,  Joyce,  wish 
you  to  remain  with  the  children." 

"It  is  well,  sir,"  Joyce  answered;  and  her  face 
looked  bright  as  she  quitted  the  room. 


EAST  lvna  ::  259 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE   SAME,    YET   NOT 


More  than  a  year  has  gone  b}^ 

To  a  family  by  the  name  of  Crosby,  stopping  at 
Stalkenberg,  in  Germany,  Lady  Isabel  is  governess. 
But  look  at  her,  reader,  for  she  is  so  altered  as  to  be 
well-nigh  unrecognizable.  Yes;  the  railway  accident 
did  that  for  her;  and  what  the  accident  left  undone^ 
grief  and  remorse  accomplished. 

She  limps  slightly  as  she  walks,  and  stoops,  which 
takes  from  her  former  height.  A  scar  extends  from 
her  chin  above  her  mouth,  completely  changing  the 
character  of  the  lower  part  of  her  face;  some  of  her 
teeth  are  missing,  so  that  she  speaks  with  a  lisp;  and 
the  sober  bands  of  her  gray  hair — it  is  nearly  silver — 
are  confined  under  a  large  and  close  cap.  She  herself\ 
tries  to  make  the  change  greater,  that  the  chance  of  I 
being  recognized  may  be  at  an  end,  for  which  reason' 
she  wears  disfiguring  green  spectacles — or,  as  they  are 
called,  preservers — going  round  the  eyes;  and  a  broad 
band  of  gray  velvet  coming  down  low  upon  her  fore- 
head. 

Her  dress,  too,  is  equally  disfiguring.  Never  is  she 
seen  in  one  that  fits  her  person,  but  in  those  frightful 
''loose  jackets,"  which  must  surely  have  been  invented 
by  somebody  envious  of  a  pretty  shape.  As  to  her 
bonnet,  it  would  put  to  shame  those  masquerade 
things  tilted  on  to  the  back  of  the  head,  for  it  actually 
shaded  her  face;  and  she  was  never  seen  out-of-doors 
without  a  thick  veil.  She  was  pretty  easy  upon  the' 
score  of  being  recognized  now,  for  Mrs.  Ducie  and  her 
daughter  had  been  sojourning  at  Stalkenberg,  and 
they  did  not  know  her  in  the  least.  Who  could  know 
her?  What  resemblance  was  there  between  that  gray 
broken-down  woman,  with  her  disfiguring  marks,  and 


3Wi 

4 


260  EAST  LYNNE 


/the  once  lovely  Lady  Isabel,  with  her  bright  color,  her 
j  beauty,  her  dark,  flowing  curls,  and  her  agile  figure? 
!  Mr.  Carlyle  himself  would  not  have  known  her.  But 
j  she  was  good-looking  still,  in  spite  of  it  all,  gentle  and 
interesting;  and  people  wondered  to  see  that  gray  hair 
ion  one  yet  young. 

She  had  been  with  the  Crosbys  nearly  two  years. 
After  her  recovery  from  the  railway  accident,  she 
removed  to  a  quiet  town  in  its  vicinity,  where  they 
were  living,  and  she  became  daily  governess  to  Helena. 
The  Crosbys  were  given  to  understand  she  was  Eng- 
lish, but  the  widow  of  a  Frenchman — she  vv^as  obliged 
to  offer  some  plausible  account.  There  were  no  refer- 
ences; but  she  so  won  upon  their  esteem  as  the  daily 
governess  that  they  soon  took  her  into  the  house. 
Had  Lady  Isabel  surmised  that  they  would  be  travel- 
ing to  so  conspicuous  a  spot  as  an  English-frequented 
German  watering-place,  she  might  have  hesitated  to 
accept  the  engagement.  However,  it  had  been  of 
service  to  her,  the  meeting  with  Mrs.  Ducie  proving 
that  she  was  altered  beyond  chance  of  recognition. 
She  could  go  anywhere  now. 

But  how  about  her  state  of  mind?  1  do  not  know  how 
to  describe  the  vain  yearning,  the  inward  fever,  the 
restless  longing  for  what  might  not  be.  Longing  for 
what?     For  her  children. 

It  happened  that  Mrs.  Latimer,  a  lady  living  at 
West  Lynne,  betook  herself  about  that  time  to  Stalk- 
enberg,  and  with  her,  three  parts  maid  and  one  part 
companion,  went  Afy  Hallijohn.  Not  that  Afy  was 
admitted  to  the  society  of  Mrs.  Latimer,  to  sit  with 
her  or  dine  with  her— nothing  of  that;  but  she  did 
enjoy  more  privileges  than  most  ladies'-maids;  and 
Afy,  who  was  never  backward  at  setting  off  her  own 
consequence,  gave  out  that  she  was  "companion." 
Mrs.  Latimer  was  an  easy  woman,  fond  of  Afy;  and 
Afy  had  made  her  own  tale  good  to  her  respecting  the 
ill-natured  reports  at  the  time  of  the  murder,  so  that 
Mrs.  Latimer  looked  upon  her  as  one  to  be  compas- 
sionated. 


EAST  LYNNE  261 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  Helena  Crosby  communi- 
cated her  future  prospects  to  Lady  Isabel,  the  latter 
strolled  out  in  the  twilight  and  took  her  seat  on  a 
bench  in  an  unfrequented  part  of  the  gardens,  where 
she  was  fond  of  sitting.  Now  it  came  to  pass  that  Afy, 
some  few  minutes  afterward,  found  herself  in  the 
same  walk — and  a  very  dull  one,  too,  she  was  thinking. 

"Who's  that?"  quoth  Afy  to  herself,  her  eyes  falling 
upon  Lady  Isabel.  "Oh,  it's  that  governess  of  the 
Crosbys.  She  may  be  known  a  mile  off  by  her  grand- 
mother's bonnet.  I'll  go  and  have  a  chat  with  her." 
Accordingly  Afy,  who  was  never  troubled  with  bash- 
fulness,  went  up  and  seated  herself  beside  Lady 
Isabel.      "Good-evening,  Madame  Vine, "  cried  she. 

"Good-evening,"  replied  Lady  Isabel,  courteously, 
not  having  the  least  idea  of  whom  Afy  might  be. 
"You  don't  know  me,  I  fancy,"  pursued  Afy,  so  gath- 
ering from  Lady  Isabel's  looks.  "I  am  companion  to 
Mrs.  Latimer;  and  she  is  spending  the  evening  with 
Mrs.  Crosby.      Precious  dull,  this  Stalkenberg!" 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"It  is  for  me.  I  can't  speak  German  or  French,  and 
the  upper  attendants  of  families  here  can't,  most  of 
them,  speak  English.  I'm  sure  I  go  about  like  an 
owl,  able  to  do  nothing  but  stare.  I  was  sick  enough 
to  come  here,  but  I'd  rather  be  back  at  West  Lynne, 
quiet  as  it  is." 

Lady  Isabel  had  not  been  encouraging  her  compan- 
ion, either  by  words  or  manner,  but  the  last  sentence 
caused  her  heart  to  bound  within  her.  Control  herself 
as  she  would,  she  could  not  quite  hide  her  feverish 
interest. 

"Do  you  come  from  West  Lynne?" 

"Yes.  Horrid  place!  Mrs.  Latimer  took  a  house 
there  soon  after  I  went  to  live  with  her.  I'd  rather 
she  had  taken  it  at  Botany  Bay." 

"Why  do  you  not  like  it?" 

"Because  I  don't,"  was  Afy's  satisfactory  answer. 

"Do  you  know  East  Lynne?"  resumed  Lady  Isabel, 
her  heart  beating  and  her  brain  whirling,  as  she  delib- 


262  EAST  LYNNE 

erated  how  she  could  put  all  the  questions  she  wished 
to  ask. 

"I  ought  to  know  it,"  returned  Afy.  "My  own 
sister,  Miss  Hallijohn,  is  head  maid  there.  Why?  Do 
you  know  it,  Madame  Vine?" 

Lady  Isabel  hesitated;  she  was  deliberating  upon  her 
answer.  "Some  years  ago  I  was  staying  in  the  neigh- 
borhood for  a  little  time,"  she  said.  "I  should  like  to 
hear  of  the  Carlyles  again;  they  were  a  nice  family." 

Afy  tossed  her  head.  "Ah!  but  there  have  been 
changes  since  that.  I  dare  say  you  knew  them  in  the 
time  of  Lady  Isabel?" 

Another  pause.  "Lady  Isabel?  Yes.  She  was  Mr, 
Carlyle's  wife." 

"And  a  nice  wife  she  made  him!"  ironically  rejoined 
Afy.  "You  must  have  heard  of  it,  Madame  Vine, 
unless  you  have  lived  in  a  wood.  She  eloped;  aban- 
doned him  and  her  children." 

"Are  the  children  living?" 

"Yes,  poor  things.  But  the  one's  on  its  road  to  con- 
sumption, if  ever  I  saw  consumption  yet.  Joyce — 
that's  my  sister — is  in  a  flaring  temper  with  me  when 
I  say  it.     She  thinks  it  will  get  strong  again." 

Lady  Isabel  passed  her  handkerchief  across  het 
moist  brow. 

"Which  of  the  children  is  it?"  she  faintly  asked. 
"Isabel?" 

"Isabel?"  retorted  Afy.     "Who's  Isabel?" 

"The  eldest  child,  I  mean;  Miss  Isabel  Carlyle. " 

"There's  no  Isabel.  There's  Lucy.  She's  the  only 
daughter." 

"When — when — I  knew  them,  there  was  only  one 
daughter;  the  other  two  were  boys;  I  remember  quite 
well  that  she  was  called  Isabel." 

"Stay,"  said  Afy;  "now  you  speak  of  it,  what  was 
it  that  I  heard?  It  was  Wilson  told  me,  I  recollect — 
she's  the  nurse.  Why,  the  very  night  that  his  wife 
went  away,  Mr.  Carlyle  gave  orders  that  the  child  in 
future  should  be  called  Lucy — her  second  name.  No 
wonder,"  added   Afy,    violently   indignant,    "that  he 


EAST  LYNNE  263 

could  no  jonger  endure  the  sound  of  her  mother's,  or 
suffer  the  child  to  bear  it." 

"No  wonder,"  murmured  Lady  Isabel.  "Which 
child  is  it  that  is  ir?" 

"It's  William,  the  eldest  boy.  He  is  not,  to  say,  ill; 
but  he  is  as  thin  as  a  herring,  willi  an  unnaturally 
bright  look  on  his  cheeks,  and  a  glaze  upon  his  eyes. 
Joyce  says  his  cheeks  are  no  brighter  than  his  mother's 
used  to  be,  but  1  know  better.  Folks  in  health  don't 
have  those  brilliant  colors." 

"Did  you  ever  see  Lady  Isabel?"  she  asked,  in  a  low 
tone. 

"Not  I,"  returned  Afy;  "I  should  have  thought  it 
demeaning.  One  does  not  care  to  be  brought  into  con- 
tact with  that  sort  of  misdoing  lot,  you  know,  Madame 
Vine." 

"There  was  another  one,  a  little  boy — Archibald,  I 
think  his  name  was.      Is  he  well?" 

"Oh,  the  troublesome  youngster!  he  is  as  sturdy  as 
a  Turk.  No  fear  of  his  going  into  a  consumption. 
He  is  the  very  image  of  Mr.  Carlyle,  is  that  child.  I 
say,  though,  madame,"  continued  Afy,  changing  the 
subject  unceremoniously,  "if  you  were  stopping  at 
West  Lynne,  perhaps  you  heard  some  wicked,  mis- 
chief-making stories  concerning  me?" 

"I  believe  I  did  hear  your  name  mentioned.  I  can- 
not charge  my  memory  now  with  the  particulars." 

"My  father  was  murdered — you  must  have  heard  of 
that?" 

"Yes,  I  recollect  so  far." 

"He  was  murdered  by  a  chap  called  Richard  Hare, 
who  decamped  instanter.  Perhaps  you  knew  the 
Hares  also?  Well,  directly  after  the  funeral  I  left 
West  Lynne ;  I  could  not  bear  the  place ;  and  I  stopped 
away.  And  what  do  you  suppose  they  said  of  me? 
That  I  had  gone  after  Richard  Hare.  Not  that  I  knew 
they  were  saying  it,  or  1  should  pretty  soon  have  been 
back  and  given  them  the  length  of  my  tongue.  But 
now  I  just  ask  you,  as  a  lady,  Madame  Vine,  whether 
d  more  infamous  accusation  was  ever  pitched  upon?" 


mi  EASILYNNL 

•V^..-.i,i  you  had  not  gone  after  him?" 

"No;  that  I  swear,"  passionately  returned  Afy. 
"Make  myself  a  companion  of  my  father's  murderer! 
If  Mi.  Calcraft,  the  hangman,  finished  off  a  few  of 
those  West  Lynne  scandal  mongers,  it  might  be  a 
warning  to  others.     I  said  so  to  Mr.  Carlyle. " 

"To  Mr.  Carlyle,"  repeated  Lady  Isabel,  hardly 
conscious  that  she  did  repeat  it. 

"He  laughed,  I  remember,  and  said  that  would  not 
stop  the  scandal.  The  only  one  who  did  not  misjudge 
me  was  himself;  he  did  not  believe  that  I  was  with 
Richard  Hare.  But  he  was  ever  noble-judging^  was 
Mr.  Carlyle." 

"I  suppose  you  were  in  a  situation?" 

Afy  coughed.  "To  be  sure.  More  than  once.  I 
lived  as  companion  with  an  old  lady,  who  so  valued  me 
that  she  left  me  a  handsome  legacy  in  her  will.  I 
lived  two  years  with  the  Countess  Mount  Severn. " 

""With  the  Countess  of  Mount  Severn !"  echoed  Lady 
Isabel,  surprised  into  the  remark.  "Why,  she — she — 
was  related  to  Mr.  Carlyle 's  wife.  At  least.  Lord 
Mount  Severn  was." 

"Of  course.  Everybody  knows  that.  I  was  living 
there  at  the  time  the  business  happened.  Didn't  the 
countess  pull  Lady  Isabel  to  pieces!  She  and  Miss 
Levison  used  to  sit,  cant,  cant,  all  day  over  it.  Oh! 
I  assure  you  I  know  all  about  it.  Have  you  got  the 
headache,  that  you  are  leaning  on  your  hand?" 

"Headache  and  heartache  both,"  she  might  have 
answered.     Miss  Afy  resumed: 

"So,  after  the  flattering  compliment  West  Lynne 
had  paid  me,  you  may  judge  I  was  in  no  hurry  to  go 
back  to  it,  Madame  Vine.  And  if  I  had  not  found 
that  Mrs.  Latimer's  promised  to  be  an  excellent  place, 
I  should  have  left  it  rather  than  be  marshaled  there. 
But  I  have  lived  it  down.  I  should  like  to  hear  any 
of  them  fibbing  against  me  now.  Do  you  know  that 
blessed  Miss  Corny?" 

"I  have  seen  her. " 

"She  shakes  her  head  and  makes  eyes  at  me  still. 


EAST  LYNNE  265 

But  so  she  would  at  an  angel — a  cross-grained  old  cock- 
atoo!" 

"Is  she  still  at  East  Lynne?" 

"Not  she,  indeed.  There  would  be  drawn  battles 
between  her  and  Mrs.  Carlyle,  if  she  were." 

A  dart,  as  of  an  ice  bolt,  seemed  to  arrest  the  blood 
of  Lady  Isabel's  veins.  "Mrs.  Carlyle?"  she  faltered. 
"Who  is  Mrs.  Carlyle?" 

"Mr.  Carlyle's  wife.     Who  should  she  be?" 

The  rushing  blood  leaped  on  now,  fast  and  fiery. 
"I  did  not  know  he  had  married  again." 

"He  has  been  married  now,  getting  on  for  fifteen 
months;  a  twelvemonth  last  June.  I  went  to  the 
church  to  see  them  married.  Wasn't  there  a  cram! 
She  looked  beautiful  that  day." 

Lady  Isabel  laid  her  hand  upon  her  beating  heart. 
But  for  that  delectable  "loose  jacket,"  Afy  might  have 
detected  her  bosom's  rise  and  fall.  She  steadied  her 
voice  sufficiently  to  speak: 

"Did  he  marry  Barbara  Hare?'' 

"You  may  take  your  oath  of  that,"  said  Afy.  "If 
folks  tell  true,  there  were  love  scenes  between  them 
before  he  ever  thought  of  Lady  Isabel.  I  had  that 
from  Wilson,  and  she  ought  to  know,  for  she  lived  at 
the  Hares'.  Another  thing  is  said — only  you  must 
just  believe  one  word  of  West  Lynne  talk  and  disbe- 
lieve ten — that  Lady  Isabel  had  not  died,  Mr.  Carlyle 
never  would  have  married  again;  he  had  scruples. 
Half  a  dozen  were  given  to  him  by  report;  Louisa 
Dobede  for  one,  and  Mary  Pinner  for  another.  Such 
nonsense!  folks  might  have  made  sure  it  would  be 
Barbara  Hare.     There's  a  baby  now.  " 

"Is  there?"  was  the  faint  answer. 

"A  beautiful  boy,  three  or  four  months  old.  Mrs. 
Carlyle  is  not  a  little  proud  of  him.  She  worships  her 
husband." 

"Is  she  kind  to  the  first  children?" 

"For  all  I  know.  I  don't  think  she  has  much  to  do 
with  them.  Archibald  is  in  the  nursery,  and  the  other 
two  are  mostly  with  the  governess.     Nearly  the  first 


266  EAST  LYNNE 

thing  that  Mr.  Carlyle  did  after  his  wife's  moonlight 
flitting,  was  to  seek  a  governess,  and  she  has  been 
there  ever  since.  She  is  going  to  leave  now;  to  be 
married,  Joyce  told  me." 

"Are  you  much  at  East  Lynne?" 

Afy  shook  her  head.  "I  am  not  going  much,  I  can 
tell  you,  where  I  am  looked  down  upon.  Mrs.  Carlyle 
does  not  favor  me.  She  knew  that  her  brother  Rich- 
ard would  have  given  his  head  to  marry  me,  and  she 
resents  it.  No  such  great  catch,  I'm  sure,  that  Dick 
Hare,  even  if  he  had  gone  on  right,"  continued  Afy, 
somewhat  after  the  example  of  the  fox  looking  at  the 
unattainable  grapes.  "He  had  no  brains  to  speak  of; 
and  what  he  had  were  the  color  of  a  peacock's  tail — 
green.  Ah,  me !  the  changes  that  take  placfe  in  this 
world!  But  for  that  Lady  Isabel's  mad  folly  in  quit- 
ting him,  and  leaving  the  field  open,  Miss  Barbara 
would  never  have  had  the  chance  of  being  Mrs. 
Carlyle." 

Lady  Isabel  groaned  in  spirit. 

"There's  one  person  who  will  never  hear  a  word 
breathed  against  her,  and  that's  Joyce,"  went  on  Afy. 
"She  was  as  fond  of  Lady  Isabel,  nearly,  as  Mr.  Car- 
lyle was." 

"Was  he  so  fond  of  her?" 

"He  worshiped  the  very  ground  she  trod  upon. 
Ay,  up  to  the  hour  of  her  departure;  Joyce  says  she 
knows  he  did;  and  that's  how  she  repaid  him.  But 
it's  sure  to  be  the  way  in  this  world;  let  a  man  or 
woman  make  an  idol  of  another,  and  see  if  they  don't 
get  served  out.  The  night  that  Mr.  Carlyle  brought 
his  new  wife  home,  Joyce,  who  was  attending  on  her, 
went  into  the  dressing-room,  leaving  Mrs.  Carlyle  in 
the  bed-chamber.  'Joyce,'  she  called  out.  'My  lady?' 
answered  Joyce— proving  who  was  filling  up  her 
thoughts.  I  don't  know  how  Mrs.  Carlyle  liked  it. 
Joyce  said  she  felt  as  mad  as  could  be  with  herself." 

"I  wonder,"  cried  Lady  Isabel,  in  a  low  tone,  "how 
the  tidings  of  her  death  were  received  at  East  Lynne?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about   that.      They  held  it 


EAST  LYNNE  267 

as  a  jubilee,  I  should  say,  and  set  all  the  bells  in  the 
town  to  ring,  and  feasted  the  men  upon  legs  of  mutton 
and  onion  sauce  afterward.  I  should,  I  know.  A 
brute  animal,  deaf  and  dumb,  clings  to  its  offspring; 
but  she  abandoned  hers.  Are  you  going  in,  Madame 
Vine?" 

*'I  must  go  in  now.     Good-evening  to  you." 

She  had  sat  till  she  could  sit  no  longer ;  her  very 
heart-strings  were  wrung.  And  she  might  not  rise  up 
in  defense  of  herself.  Defense?  Did  she  not  deserve 
more,  ten  thousand  times  more  reproach  than  had  met 
her  ears  now?  This  girl  did  not  say  of  her  half  what 
the  world  must  say. 

To  bed  at  the  usual  time,  but  not  to  sleep.  What 
she  had  heard  only  increased  her  vain,  incessant  long- 
ing. A  stepmother  at  East  Lynne,  and  one  of  her- 
children  gliding  on  to  death!  Oh,  to  be  with  them!  to 
see  them  once  again!  To  purchase  that  boon,  she 
would  willingly  forfeit  all  the  rest  of  her  existence. 

Her  frame  was  fevered ;  the  bed  was  fevered ;  and 
she  rose  and  paced  the  room.  This  state  of  mind 
would  inevitably  bring  on  bodily  illness,  possibly  an 
attack  of  the  brain.  She  dreaded  that;  for  there  was 
no  telling  what  she  might  reveal  in  her  delirium.  Her 
temples  were  throbbing,  her  heart  was  beating;  and 
she  once  more  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  and  pressed 
the  pillow  down  upon  her  forehead.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  the  news  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  marriage  helped  greatly 
the  excitement.  She  did  not  pray  to  die;  but  she  did 
wish  that  death  might  come  to  her. 

What  would  have  been  the  ending  it  is  impossible^ 
to  say,  but  a  strange  turn  in  affairs  came ;  one  of  those  J  / 
wonderful  coincidences  which  are  sometimes,  but  not/ 
often,    to    be   met  with.      Mrs.    Crosby    appeared    in 
Madame  Vine's  room   after   breakfast,  and   gave  hei 
an  account  of  Helena's  projected  marriage.      She  then, 
apologized  (the  real  object  of  her  visit)  for  dispensing 
so  summarily   with   madame's  services,  but  she   had 
reason  to  hope  that  she  could  introduce  her  to  anothei 
situation.     Would  madame  have  any  objection  to  take 


268  EAST  LYNNE 

one  in  England?  Madame  was  upon  the  point  of  reply- 
ing that  she  did  not  choose  to  enter  one  in  England, 
when  Mrs.  Crosby  stopped  her,  saying  she  would  call 
in  Mrs.  Latimer,  who  could  tell  her  about  it  better 
than  she  could. 

Mrs.  Latimer  came  in  all  eagerness  and  volubility. 
"Ah,  my  dear  madame, "  she  exclaimed,  "you  would 
be  fortunate,  indeed,  if  you  were  to  get  into  this 
family.  They  are  the  nicest  people,  he  so  liked  and 
respected;  she  so  pretty  and  engaging.  A  most  desir- 
able situation.  You  will  be  treated  as  a  lady,  and 
have  all  things  comfortable.  There  is  only  one  pupil, 
a  girl;  one  of  the  little  boys,  I  believe,  goes  in  for  an 
hour  or  two,  but  that  is  not  much;  and  the  salary  is 
seventy  guineas.  The  Carlyles  are  friends  of  mine; 
they  live  at  a  beautiful  place.  East  Lynne. " 

The  Carlyles!  East  Lynne!  Go  governess  there! 
Lady  Isabel's  breath  was  taken  away. 

"They  are  parting  with  their  governess,"  continued 
Mrs.  Latimer,  "and,  when  I  was  there,  a  day  or  two 
before  I  started  on  my  tour  to  Germany,  Mrs.  Carlyle 
said  to  me:  'I  suppose  you  could  not  pick  us  up  a 
desirable  governess  for  Lucy;  one  who  is  mistress  of 
French  and  German. '  She  spoke  in  a  half-joking 
tone,  but  I  feel  sure  that,  were  I  to  write  word  that  I 
had  found  one,  it  would  give  her  pleasure.  Now, 
Mrs.  Crosby  tells  me  your  French  is  quite  that  of  a 
native,  Madame  Vine,  that  you  read  and  speak  German 
well,  and  that  your  musical  abilities  are  excellent.  I 
think  you  would  be  just  the  one  to  suit;  and  I  have  no 
doubt  I  could  get  you  the  situation.  What  do  you 
say?" 

What  could  she  say?     Her  brain  was  in  a  whirl. 

The  outcome  was  that  Mrs.  Latimer  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Carlyle  and  she  was  engaged. 


EAST  LYNNE 


CHAPTER  XL 

CHANGE   AND   CHANGE 


It  was  a  foggy  afternoon,  gray  with  the  coming 
twilight,  when  they  arrived  at  West  Lynne.  Mrs. 
Latimer,  believing  the  governess  was  a  novice  in  Eng- 
land, kindly  put  her  into  a  fly,  and  told  the  driver  his 
destination.  ''Azi  revoir,  madame,"  she  said,  "and 
good  luck  to  you." 

Once  more  she  was  whirling  along  the  familiar 
road.  She  saw  Justice  Hare's  house,  she  saw  other 
marks  which  she  knew  well.  And  once  more  she  saw 
East  Lynne,  the  dear  old  house,  for  the  fly  had 
turned  into  the  avenue.  Lights  were  moving  in  the 
windows,  it  looked  gay  and  cheerful,  a  contrast  to  her. 
Her  heart  was  sick  with  expectation,  her  throat  was 
beating;  and  as  the  man  thundered  up  with  all  the 
force  of  his  one  horse,  and  halted  at  the  steps,  her 
sight  momentarily  left  her.  Would  Mr.  Carlyle  come 
to  the  fly  to  hand  her  out?  She  wished  she  had  never 
undertaken  the  project,  now,  in  the  depth  of  her  fear 
and  agitation. 

The  hall  doors  of  East  Lynne  were  thrown  open, 
and  a  flood  of  golden  light  streamed  out  upon  the 
steps.  Two  men-servants  stood  there.  One  remained 
in  the  hall,  the  other  advanced  to  the  chaise.  He 
assisted  Lady  Isabel  to  alight,  and  then  busied  him- 
self with  the  luggage.  As  she  ascended  to  the  hall 
she  recognized  old  Peter;  strange,  indeed,  did  it  seem, 
not  to  say,  "How  are  you,  Peter?"  but  to  meet  him  as 
a  stranger.  For  a  moment  she  was  at  a  loss  for 
words;  what  should  she  say,  or  ask,  coming  to  her  own 
home?     Her  manner  was  embarrassed,  her  voice  low. 

'  Is  Mrs.  Carlyle  within?" 

"Yes,  ma'am."  ^ 

At  that  moment  Joyce  came  forward  to  receive  her. 


270  EAST  LYNNE 

"It  is  Madame  Vine,  I  believe?"  she  respectfully  said. 
"Please  to  step  this  way,  madame. " 

But  Lady  Isabel  lingered  in  the  hall,  ostensibly  to 
see  that  her  boxes  came  in  right— Stephen  \vas  bring- 
ing them  up  then— in  reality,  to  gather  a  short  respite, 
for  Joyce  might  be  about  to  usher  her  into  the  pres- 
ence of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carlyle. 

Joyce,  however,  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  She 
merely  conducted  her  to  the  gray  parlor;  a  fire  was 
burning  in  the  grate,  looking  cheerful  on  the  autumn 
night. 

"This  is  your  sitting-room,  madame.  What  will  you 
please  to  take?  I  will  order  it  while  I  show  you  your 
bed-chamber." 

"A  cup  of  tea,"  answered  Lady  Isabel. 

"Tea  and  some  cold  meat  with  it?"  suggested  Joyce. 
But  Lady  Isabel  interrupted  her. 

"Nothing  but  tea,  and  a  little  cold  toast." 

Joyce  rang  the  bell,  ordered  the  refreshment  to  be 
made  ready,  and  then  preceded  Lady  Isabel  upstairs. 
On  she  followed,  her  heart  palpitating;  past  the  rooms 
that  used  to  be  hers,  along  the  corridor,  toward  the 
second  staircase.  The  doors  of  her  old  bed  and  dress- 
ing-rooms stood  open,  and  she  glanced  in  wuth  a  yearn- 
ing look.  No,  never  more,  never  more  could  they  be 
hers;  she  had  put  them  from  her  by  her  own  free  act 
and  deed.  Not  less  comfortable  did  they  look  now, 
than  in  former  days;  but  they  had  passed  into  another's 
occupancy.  The  fire  threw  its  blaze  on  the  furniture; 
there  were  the  little  ornaments  on  the  large  dressing 
table,  as  they  used  to  be  in  her  time,  and  the  cut  glass 
of  the  crystal  essence  bottles  was  glittering  in  the 
firelight.  On  the  sofa  lay  a  shawl  and  a  book,  and  on 
the  bed  a  silk  dress,  as  if  thrown  there  after  being 
taken  off.  No,  these  rooms  were  not  for  her  now; 
and  she  followed  Joyce  up  the  other  staircase.  The 
bedroom  to  which  she  was  shown  was  commodious  and 
well  furnished.  It  was  the  one  Miss  Carlyle  had  occu- 
pied when  she,  Isabel,  had  been  taken,  a  bride,  to 
East  Lynne,  though  that  lady  had  subsequently  quitted 


EAST  LYNNE  271 

it  for  one  on  the  lower  floor.    Joyce  put  down  the  wax 
light  she  carried  and  looked  round. 

"Would  you  like  a  fire  lighted  here,  madame,  for  to- 
night?   Perhaps  it  will  feel  welcome,  after  traveling." 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you,"  was  the  answer. 

Stephen,  with  somebody  to  help  him,  was  bringing 
up  the  luggage.  Joyce  directed  him  where  to  place 
it,  telling  him  to  uncord  the  boxes.  That  done,  the 
man  left  the  room,  and  Joyce  turned  to  Lady  Isabel, 
who  had  stood  like  a  statue,  never  so  much  as  attempt- 
ing to  remove  her  bonnet. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  madame?"  she  asked. 

Lady  Isabel  declined.  In  these,  her  first  moments  of 
arrival,  she  was  dreading  detection — how  was  it  possi- 
ble that  she  should  not? — and  feared  Joyce's  keen  eyes 
more,  perhaps,  than  she  feared  any  others.  She  was 
only  wishing  that  the  girl  would  go  down. 

"Should  you  want  any  one,  please  to  ring,  and 
Hannah  will  come  up,"  said  Joyce,  preparing  to 
retire.  "She  is  the  maid  who  waits  upon  the  gray 
parlor,  and  will  do  anything  you  like  up  here." 

Joyce  had  quitted  the  room,  and  Lady  Isabel  had 
got  her  bonnet  off,  when  the  door  opened  again.  She 
hastily  thrust  it  on — somewhat  after  the  fashion  of 
Richard  Hare's  rushing  on  his  hat  and  his  false 
whiskers.     It  was  Joyce. 

"Do  you  think  you  shall  find  your  way  down  alone, 
madame?" 

"Yes,  I  can  do  that,"  she  answered.  Find  her  way! 
— in  that  house! 

^    Lady  Isabel  slowly  took  her  things  off.     Where  was 
jthe  use  of  lingering? — she  must  meet  their  eye  sooner 
Jor  later.      Though   in  truth,  there  was  little,  if  any, "\ 
I  fear  of  her  detection,  so  effectually  was  she  disguised,  I 
ihy  nature's  altering  hand,  or  by  art's.       It  was  withj 
the  utmost  difficulty  she  kept  tranquil;  had  the  tears 
once  burst  forth,  they  would  have  gone  on  to  hyster- 
ics, without  the  possibility  of   control.      The  coming 
home  again  to  East  Lynne!     Oh,  it  was  indeed  a  time 
of  agitation;  terrible,  painful  agitation;  and  none  can 


272  EAST  LYNNE 

wonder  at  it.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  she  did?  Yes,  I 
will.  She  knelt  down  by  the  bed,  and  prayed  for  cour- 
age to  go  through  the  task  she  had  undertaken,  prayed 
for  self-control ;  even  she,  the  sinful,  who  had  quitted 
that  house  under  circumstances  so  notorious.  But  I 
am  not  sure  that  this  mode  of  return  to  it  was  an 
expedition  precisely  calculated  to  call  down  a  bl'essing. 

There  was  no  excuse  for  lingering  longer,  and  she 
descended,  the  wax  light  in  her  hand.  Everything 
was  ready  in  the  gray  parlor;  the  tea-tray  on  the  table, 
the  small  urn  hissing  away,  the  tea-caddy  in  proximity 
to  it.  A  silver  rack  of  dry  toast,  butter,  and  a  hot 
Tnuiifin  covered  with  a  small  silver  cover.  The  things 
were  to  her  sight  as  old  faces;  the  rack,  the  small 
cover,  the  butter-dish,  the  tea-service;  she  remembered 
them  all.  Not  the  urn,  a  copper  one;  she  had  no  recol- 
lection of  that.  It  had  possibly  been  bought  for  the 
use  of  the  governess,  when  a  governess  came  into  use 
at  East  Lynne.  If  she  had  reflected  on  the  m.atter, 
she  might  have  known,  by  the  signs  observable  in  the 
short  period  she  had  been  in  the  house,  that  govern- 
esses at  East  Lynne  were  regarded  as  gentlewomen ; 
treated  well  and  liberally.  Yes ;  for  East  Lynne  owned 
Mr.  Carlyle  for  its  master. 

She  made  the  tea,  and  sat  down  with  what  appetite 
she  might.  Her  brain,  her  thoughts,  all  in  a  chaos 
together.  She  wondered  whether  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle were  at  dinner;  she  wondered  in  what  part  of  the 
house  were  the  children;  she  heard  bells  ring  now  and 
then;  she  heard  servants  cross  and  recross  the  hall. 
Her  meal  over,  she  rang  her  own. 

A  neat-looking,  good-tempered  maid  answered  it — 
Hannah,  who — as  Joyce  had  informed  her — waited 
upon  the  gray  parlor,  and  was  at  her,  the  governess*, 
especial  command.  She  took  away  the  things,  and 
then  Lady  Isabel  sat  on  alone — for  how  long  she 
scarcely  knew — when  a  sound  caused  her  heart  to  beat 
as  if  it  vvould  burst  its  bounds,  and  she  started  from 
her  chair  like  one  who  has  received  an  electric   shock. 

It  was  nothing  to  be  startled  at— for  ordinary  people; 


EAST  LYNNE  273 

it  was  but  the  sound  of  children's  voices.  Her  chil- 
dren! were  they  being  brought  in  to  her?  She  pressed 
her  hand  upon  her  heaving  bosom. 

No;  they  were  but  traversing  the  hall,  and  the 
voices  faded  away  up  the  wide  staircase.  Perhaps 
they  had  been  in  to  dessert,  as  in  the  old  times,  and 
were  now  going  up  to  bed.  She  looked  at  her  new 
watch ;  half-past  seven. 

Her  nev/  watch.  The  old  one  had  been  changed 
away  for  it.  All  her  trinkets  had  been  likewise  parted 
with,  sold  or  exchanged  away,  lest  they  should  be 
recognized  at  East  Lynne.  Nothing  whatever  had  she 
kept,  except  her  mother's  miniature  and  the  small 
golden  cross  set  with  its  seven  emeralds.  Have  you 
forgotten  that  cross?  Francis  Levison  accidentally 
broke  it  for  her  the  first  time  they  ever  met.  If  she 
had  looked  upon  the  breaking  of  that  cross,  which  her 
mother  had  enjoined  her  to  set  such  store  hy,  as  an 
evil  omen  at  the  time  of  the  accident,  how  awfully 
had  the  subsequent  events  seemed  to  bear  her  fancy 
out!  These  two  articles,  the  miniature  and  the  cross, 
she  could  not  bring  her  mind  to  part  with;  she  had 
sealed  them  up,  and  placed  them  in  the  remotest  spot 
of  her  dressing-case,  away  from  all  chance  of  public 
view.      Peter  entered. 

"My  mistress  says,  ma'am,  she  would  be  glad  to  see 
you,  if  you  are  not  too  tired.  Will  you  please  to  walk 
into  the  drawing-room?" 

A  mist  swam  before  her  eyes.  Was  she  about  to 
enter  the  presence  of  Mr.  Carlyle?  had  the  moment 
really  come?  She  moved  to  the  door,  which  Peter 
held  open.  She  turned  her  head  from  the  man,  for 
she  could  feel  how  ashy  white  were  her  face  and  lips. 
"Is  Mrs.  Carlyle  alone?"  she  asked,  in  a  subdued 
voice.  The  most  indirect  way  she  could  put  the  ques- 
tion as  to  whether  Mr.  Carlyle  was  there. 

"Quite  alone,  ma'am.  My  master  is  dining  out  to-day. 
Madame  Vine,  I  think?"  he  added,  waiting  to  announce 
her,  aS;  the  hall  traversed,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the 
d rowing-room  door. 


274  EAST  LYNNE 

"Madame  Vine,"  she  said,  correcting  him.  For 
Peter  had  spoken  the  name,  Vine,  broadly,  according 
to  our  English  habitude;  she  set  him  right,  and  pro- 
nounced it  a  la  7)wde  Frajicaise. 

"Madame  Veen,  ma'am,"  quoth  Peter  to  his  mis- 
tress as  he  ushered  in  Lady  Isabel. 

The  old  familiar  drawing-room;  its  large,  hand- 
some proportions,  its  well-arranged  furniture,  its 
bright  chandelier!  It  all  came  back  to  her  with  a  heart- 
sickness.  No  longer  her  drawing-room,  that  she 
should  take  pride  in  it;  she  had  flung  it  away  from  her 
when  she  flung  away  the  rest. 

Seated  under  the  blaze  of  the  chandelier  was  Bar- 
bara. Not  a  day  older  did  she  look  than  when  Lady 
Isabel  had  first  seen  her  at  the  churchyard  gates, 
when  she  had  inquired  of  her  husband  who  was  that 
pretty  gii'l.  "Barbara  Hare,"  he  had  answered.  Ay! 
She  was  Barbara  Hare  then,  but  now  she  was  Barbara 
Carlyle;  and  she — she,  who  had  been  Isabel  Carlyle — 
was  Isabel  Vane  again!     Oh,  woe!  woe! 

Inexpressibly  more  beautiful  looked  Barbara  than 
Lady  Isabel  had  ever  seen  her — or  else  she  fancied  it. 
Her  evening  dress  was  of  pale  sky  blue — no  other 
color  suited  Barbara  so  well,  and  there  was  no  other 
she  was  so  fond  of — and  on  her  fair  neck  was  a  gold 
chain,  and  on  her  arms  were  gold  bracelets.  Her 
pretty  features  were  attractive  as  ever,  her  cheeks 
were  flushed;  her  blue  eyes  sparkled,  and  her  light 
hair  was  rich  and  abundant.  A  contrast,  her  hair,  to 
that  of  the  worn  woman  opposite  to  her. 

Barbara  came  forward,  her  hand  stretched  out  with 
a  kindly  greeting.  "I  hope  you  are  not  very  much 
tired  after  your  journey?"  Lady  Isabel  murmured 
something,  she  did  not  know  what,  and  pushed  the 
chair  set  for  her  as  much  as  possible  in  the  shade. 

"You  are  not  ill,  are  you?"  asked  Barbara,  noting 
the  intensely  pale  face— as  much  as  could  be  seen  of 
it  for  the  cap  and  the  spectacles. 

"Not  ill,"  was  the  low  answer,  "only  a  little 
fatigued  " 


EAST  LYNNE  275 

**  Would  you  prefer  that  I  should  speak  with  you  in 
the  morning?  You  would  like,  possibly,  to  retire  to 
bed  at  once."  But  this  Lady  Isabel  declined.  Better 
get  the  first  interview  over  by  candlelight  than  by 
daylight. 

"You  looked  so  very  pale.  I  feared  you  might  be 
ill." 

**I  am  generally  pale;  sometimes  remarkably  so ;  but 
my  health  is  good." 

"Mrs.  Latimer  wrote  us  word  that  you  w^ould  be 
quite  sure  to  suit  us,"  freely  said  Barbara.  "1  hope 
you  will;  and  I  hope  you  may  find  your  residence  here 
agreeable.     Have  you  lived  much  in  England?" 

"In  the  early  portion  of  my  life." 

"And  you  have  lost  your  husband  and  children? 
Stay.  I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  am  making  a  mistake; 
I  think  Mrs.  Latimer  did  mention  children." 

"I  have  lost  them,"  was  the  faint,  quiet  response. 

"Oh,  but  it  must  be  terrible  grief  when  children 
die!"  exclaimed  Barbara,  clasping  her  hands  in  emo- 
tion. "I  would  not  lose  my  baby  for  the  world.  I 
could  not  part  with  him." 

"Terrible  grief,  and  hard  to  bear,"  outwardly 
assented  Lady  Isabel.  But  in  her  heart  she  was  think- 
ing that  death  was  not  the  worst  kind  of  parting. 
There  was  another,  far  more  dreadful.  Mrs.  Carlyle 
began  to  speak  of  the  children  about  to  be  placed 
under  her  charge.  "You  are  no  doubt  aware  that 
they  are  not  mine!  Mrs.  Latimer  would  tell  you. 
They  are  the  children  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  first  wife." 

"And  Mr.  Carlyle's,"  interrupted  Lady  Isabel. 
What  in  the  world  made  her  say  that?  She  wondered, 
herself,  the  moment  the  words  were  out  of  her  mouth. 
A  scarlet  streak  flushed  her  cheeks,  and  she  remem- 
bered that  there  must  be  no  speaking  upon  impulse  at 
East  Lynne. 

"Mr.  Carlyle's,  of  course, "said  Barbara,  believing 
Madame  Vine  had  but  asked  the  question.  "Their 
position — the  girl's  in  particular — is  a  sad  one,  for  their 
mother  left  them.     Oh,  it  was  a  shockins^  business." 


278  EAST  LYNNE 

*'She  is  dead,  I  hear,"  said  Lady  Isabel,  hoping  to 
turn  the  immediate  point  of  conversation.  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle,  however,  continued,  as  though  she  had  not  heard 
her. 

"Mr.  Carlyle  married  Lady  Isabel  Vane,  the  late 
Lord  Mount  Severn's  daughter.  She  was  attractive 
and  beautiful,  but  I  do  not  fancy  she  cared  very  much 
for  her  husband.  However  that  may  have  been,  she 
ran  away  from  him. ' ' 

"It  was  very  sad,"  observed  Lady  Isabel,  feeling 
that  she  was  expected  to  say  something.  Besides  she 
had  lies ^r ok  to  play. 

"Sad?  It  was  wicked;  it  was  infamous,"  returned 
Mrs.  Carlyle,  giving  way  to  some  excitement.  "Of 
all  men  living,  of  all  husbands,  Mr.  Carlyle  least 
deserved  such  a  requital.  You  will  say  so  v/hen  you 
_come  to  know  him.  And  the  affair  altogether  was  a 
'^Hyste^^  for  it  never  was  observed  or  suspected  by 
any  one  that  Lady  Isabel  entertained  a  liking  for 
another.  She  eloped  with  Francis  Levison — Sir  Fran- 
cis, he  is  now.  He  had  been  staying  at  East  Lynne, 
but  no  one  had  detected  any  undue  intimacy  between 
them,  not  even  Mr.  Carlyle.  To  him,  as  to  others,  her 
.conduct  must  always  remain  a  mastery, ' ' 

Madame  Vine  appeared  to  be  occupied  v\^ith  her 
spectacles,  setting  them  straight.  Barbara  continued. 
"Of  course  the  disgrace  is  reflected  on  the  children, 
and  always  will  be;  the  shame  of  having  a  divorced 
motlier " 

"Is  she  not  dead?"  interrupted  Lady  Isabel. 

"She  is  dead.  Oh,  yes!  But  they  will  not  be  the 
less  pointed  at,  the  girl  especially,  as  I  say.  They 
allude  to  their  mother  now  and  then,  in  conversation, 
Wilson  tells  me;  but  I  would  recommend  you, 
I\Lidame  Vine,  not  to  encourage  them  in  that.  They 
had  better  forget  her." 

"Mr.  Carlyle  would  naturally  wish   them  to  do  so." 

"Most  certainly.  There  is  little  doubt  that  Mr.  Car- 
lyle would  blot  out  all  recollection  of  her,  were  it  pos- 
sible.     But,    unfortunately,    she    was    the    children's 


EAST  LYNNE  277 

mother,  and  for  that  there  is  no  help.  1  trust  you  will 
be  able  to  instill  principles  into  the  little  girl  which 
will  keep  her  from  a  like  fate." 

"  I  will  try, "  answered  Lady  Isabel,  with  more  fervor 
than  she  had  yet  spoken.  "Are  the  children  much 
with  you,  may  I  inquire?" 

"No;  I  never  was  fond  of  being  troubled  with  chil- 
dren. When  my  own  grow  up  into  childhood  I  shall! 
deem  the  nursery  and  the  school-room  the  best  places! 
for  them.  I  hold  an  opinion,  Madame  Vine,  that  tool 
many  mothers  pursue  a  mistaken  system  in  the  man-| 
:igement  of  their  family.  There  are  some,  we  know/ 
\vho,  lost  in  the  pleasures  of  the  world,  in  frivolity, 
wholly  neglect  them.  Of  these  I  do  not  speak ;  noth- 
ing can  be  more  thoughtless,  more  reprehensible. 
But  there  are  others  who  err  on  the  opposite  side. 
They  are  never  happy  but  when  with  their  children; 
they  must  be  in  the  nursery  or  the  children  in  the 
drawing-room.  They  wash  them,  dress  them,  feed 
them — rendering  themselves  slaves  and  the  nurse's 
office  a  sinecure.  The  children  are  noisy,  trouble- 
some, cross — all  children  will  be  so — and  the  mother's 
temper  gets  soured,  and  she  gives  slaps  where,  when 
they  were  babies,  she  gave  kisses.  She  has  no  leisure, 
no  spirits  for  any  higher  training;  and  as  they  grow 
old  she  loses  her  authority.  One  who  is  wearied,  tired 
out  with  her  children — cross  when  they  play  or  make 
a  little  extra  noise  which  jars  on  her  unstrung  nerves 
— who  says,  'You  sha'n't  do  this;  you  shall  be  still,' 
and  that  perpetually,  is  sure  to  be  rebelled  against  at 
last.  It  cannot  be  otherwise.  Have  you  never 
observed  this?" 

"I  have." 

"The  discipline  of  that  house  soon  becomes  broken; 
the  children  run  wild;  the  husband  is  sick  of  it,  and 
seeks  peace  and  solace  elsewhere.  I  could  mention 
instances  in  this  neighborhood,"  continued  Mrs.  Car-, 
lyle,  "where  things  are  managed  precisely  as  I  havej 
described,  even  in  our  own  class  of  life.  I  consider  it) 
a  most  mistaken  and  pernicious  system."  ^J 


278  EAST  LYNNE 

'It  undoubtedly  is,"  answered  Lady  Isabel,  feeling 
a  sort  of  thankfulness,  poor  thing,  that  the  system  had 
not  been  hers  when  she  had  a  home  and  children. 
~  "Now  what  I  trust  I  shall  never  give  up  to  another 
will  be  the  training  of  my  children,"  pursued  Barbara. 
''Let  the  offices  properly  pertaining  to  a  nurse  be  per- 
formed by  the  nurse — of  course,  taking  care  that  she 
is  thoroughly  to  be  depended  on.  Let  her  have  the 
trouble  of  the  children,  their  noise,  their  romping — in 
short,  let  the  nursery  be  her  place  and  the  children's 
Iplace.  But  I  hope  I  shall  never  fail  to  gather  my  chil- 
'dren  round  me  daily,  at  stated  and  convenient  periods, 
for  higher  purposes:  to  instill  into  them  Christian  and 
moral  duties;  to  strive  to  teach  them  how  best  to  fulfill 
the  obligations  of  life.  This  is  a  mother's  task — as  I 
understand  the  question;  let  her  do  this  work  well, 
and  the  nurse  can  attend  to  the  rest.  A  child  should 
never  hear  aught  from  its  mother's  lips  but  persuasive 
gentleness;  and  this  becomes  impossible  if  she  is  very 
much  with  her  children."  Lady  Isabel  silentl)) 
(assented.     Mrs.  Carlyle's  views  were  correct. 

"When  I  first  came  to  East  Lynne  I  found  Miss 
Manning,  the  governess,  was  doing  everything  neces- 
sary for  Mr.  Carlyle's  children  in  the  way  of  the  train- 
ing that  I  speak  of,"  resumed  Barbara.  "She  had 
them  with  her  for  a  short  period  every  morning,  even 
the  little  one ;  I  saw  it  was  all  right,  therefore  did  not 
interfere.  Since  she  left — it  is  nearly  a  month  now — 
I  have  taken  them  myself.  We  were  sorry  to  part 
with  Miss  Manning;  she  suited  very  well.  But  she 
has  long  been  engaged  to  an  officer  in  the  army,  and 
now  they  are  to  be  married.  You  will  have  the  entire 
charge  of  the  little  girl;  she  will  be  your  companion 
out  of  school  hours;  did  you  under«;tand  that?" 

"I  am  quite  ready  and  willing  to  undertake  it,"  said 
Lady  Isabel,  her  heart  fluttering.  "Are  the  children 
well?     Do  they  enjoy  good  health?" 

"Quite  so.  They  had  the  measles  in  the  spring,  and 
the  illness  left  a  cough  upon  William,  the  eldest  boy. 
Mr.  Wainwright  says  he  will  outgrow  it." 


£AST  LYNNE  279 

*'He  has  it  still,  then?" 

''At  night  and  morning.  They  went  last  week  to 
spend  the  day  with  Miss  Carlyle,  and  were  a  little  late 
in  returning  home.  It  was  foggy,  and  the  boy  coughed 
dreadfully  after  he  came  in.  Mr.  Carlyle  v/as  so  con- 
cerned, that  he  left  the  dinner-table  and  went  up  to 
the  nursery;  he  gave  Joyce  strict  orders  that  the  child 
should  never  again  be  out  in  the  evening  air,  so  long 
as  the  cough  was  upon  him.  We  had  never  heard  him 
cough  like  that." 

"Do  you  fear  consumption?"  asked  Lady  Isabel,  in 
a  low  tone. 

"I  do  not  fear  that,  or  any  other  incurable  disease 
for  them,"  answered  Barbara.  "I  think,  with  Mr. 
Wainwright,  that  time  will  remove  the  cough.  The 
children  came  of  a  healthy  stock  on  their  father's  side, 
and  I  have  no  reason  to  think  they  do  not  on  their 
mother's.  She  died  young,  you  will  say.  Ay,  but 
she  did  not  die  of  disease ;  her  death  was  the  result  of 
accident.  How  many  children  had  you?"  pursued  Mrs. 
Carlyle  abruptly. 

At  least  the  question  fell  with  abruptness  upon  the 
ear  of  Lady  Isabel,  for  she  was  not  prepared  for  it. 
What  should  she  answer?  In  her  perplexity  she  stam- 
mered forth  the  actual  truth. 

"Three.  And — and  a  baby.  That  died.  Died  an 
infant,  1  mean." 

"To  lose  four  dear  children!"  uttered  Barbara,  with 
sympathizing  pity.     "What  did  they  die  of?" 

A  hesitating  pause.  "Some  of  one  thing,  some  of 
another,"  was  the  answer,  given  in  an  almost  inaudi- 
ble tone. 

"Did  they  die  before  your  husband?  Otherwise  the 
grief  must  have  been  worse  to  bear." 

"The — baby — died  after  him,"  stammered  Lady 
Isabel,  as  she  wiped  the  drops  from  her  pale  forehead. 
Barbara  detected  her  emotion,  and  felt  sorry  to  have 
made  the  inquiries;  she  judged  it  was  caused  by  the 
recollection  of  her  children. 

"Mrs.  Latimer   wrote  us  word  you  were  of  gentle 


280  EAST  LYNNE 

birth  and  breeding,"  she  resumed,  presently.  "I  am 
sure  you  will  excuse  my  asking  these  particular  ques- 
tions," Barbara  added  in  a  tone  of  apology,  ''but  this 
is  our  first  interview — our  preliminary  interview,  it 
may  in  a  measure  be  called,  for  we  could  not  say 
much  by  letter." 

"I  was  born  and  reared  a  gentlewoman,"  answered 
Lady  Isabel. 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  of  it;  there  is  no  mistaking  the  tone 
of  a  gentlewoman,"  said  Barbara.  "How  sad  it  is 
Avhen  pecuniary  reverses  fall  upon  us!  I  dare  say  you 
never  thought  to  go  out  as  governess." 

A  half  smile  positively  crossed  her  lips.  She  think 
to  go  out  as  a  governess! — the  Earl  of  Mount  Severn's 
only  child?     "Oh,  no!  never,"  she  said,  in  reply. 

"Your  husband,  I  fear,  did  not  leave  you  well  off. 
Mrs.  Latimer  said  something  to  that  effect." 

"When  1  lost  him  I  lost  all,"  was  the  answer.  And 
Mrs.  Carlyle  was  struck  with  the  wailing  pain 
betrayed  in  the  tone.   At  that  moment  a  maid  entered. 

"Nurse  says  the  baby  is  undressed,  and  quite  ready 
for  you,  ma'am,"  she  said,  addressing  her  mistress. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  rose,  but  hesitated  as  she  was  moving 
away. 

"I  will  have  the  baby  here  to-night,"  she  said  to 
the  girl.  "Tell  the  nurse  to  put  a  shawl  round  him 
and  bring  him  down.  It  is  the  hour  for  my  baby's 
supper,"  she  smiled,  turning  to  Lady  Isabel.  ♦  "I  may 
as  well  have  him  here  for  once,  as  Mr.  Carlyle  is  out. 
Sometimes  I  go  out  myself,  and  then  he  has  to  be  fed. " 

"You  do  not  stay  indoors  for  the  baby,  then?" 

"Certainly  not.  If  I  and  Mr.  Carlyle  have  to  be  out 
in  the  evening,  baby  gives  way.  I  should  never  give 
up  my  husband  for  my  baby— never,  dearly  as  I  love 
him." 

The  nurse  came  in— Wilson.  She  unfolded  a  shawl, 
and  placed  the  baby  on  Mrs.  Carlyle's  lap — a  proud, 
fine,  fair  young  baby,  who  reared  his  head,  and  opened 
wide  his  great  blue  eyes,  and  beat  his  arms  at  the 
lights  of   the  chandelier,  as  no  baby  of    nearly    six 


EAST  LYNNE  281 

months  old  ever  did  yet.  So  thought  Barbara.  He 
was  in  his  clean  white  night-gown,  and  night-cap, 
with  their  pretty  crimped  frills  and  border — altogether 
a  pleasant  sight  to  look  upon.  She  had  once  sat  in  that 
very  chair,  with  a  baby  as  fair  upon  her  knee;  but  all 
that  was  past  and  gone.  She  leaned  her  hot  head 
upon  her  hand,  and  a  rebellious  sigh  of  envy  went 
forth  from  her  aching  heart. 

Wilson,  the  curious,  was  devouring  her  with  her  eyes. 
Wilson  was  thinking  she  never  saw  such  a  mortal 
fright  as  the  new  governess.  Them  blue  spectacles 
capped  everything,  she  decided.  And  what  on  earth 
made  her  tie  up  her  throat  in  that  fashion  for?  As 
well  wear  a  man's  collar  and  stock  at  once!  If  her 
teaching  was  no  better  than  her  looks.  Miss  Lucy 
might  as  well  go  to  the  parish  charity  school! 

"Shall  I  wait,  ma'am?"  demurely  asked  Wilson,  hci 
investigations  being  concluded. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Carlyle.     *'I  will  ring." 

Baby  was  exceedingly  busy  taking  his  supper.  And, 
of  course,  according  to  all  baby  precedent,  he  ought 
to  have  gone  off  into  a  sound  sleep  over  it.  But  the 
supper  concluded,  and  the  gentleman  seemed  to  have 
no  more  sleep  in  his  eyes  than  he  had  before  he  began. 
He  sat  up,  crowed  at  the  lights,  stretched  out  his  hands 
for  them,  and  set  his  mother  at  defiance,  absolutely 
refusing  to  be  hushed  up. 

"Do  you  wish  to  keep  awake  all  night,  you  rebel?" 
cried  Barbara,  fondly  looking  on  him.  A  loud  crow 
by  way  of  answer.  Perhaps  it  was  intended  to  inti- 
mate that  he  did.  She  clasped  him  to  her  with  a  sud- 
den gesture  of  rapture,  a  sound  of  love,  and  devoured 
his  pretty  face  with  kisses.  Then  she  took  him  in  her 
arms,  putting  him  to  sit  upright,  and  approached 
Madame  Vine. 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  m.ore  lovely  child?" 

"A  fine  baby,  indeed,"  she  constrained  herself  to 
answer;  and  she  could  have  fancied  it  her  own  little 
Archibald  over  again  when  he  was  a  baby.  "But  he 
is  not  much  like  you," 


V 


282  EAST  LYNNE 

**He  is  the  very  image  of  my  darling  husband.  When 
5''ou  see  Mr.  Carlyle — " 

Barbara  stopped,  and  bent  her  ear,  as  if  listening. 

"Mr.  Carlyleisprobably  a  handsome  man,"  said  poor 
Lady  Isabel,  believing  that  the  pause  was  made  to 
give  her  an  opportunity  of  putting  in  an  observation. 

'*He  is  handsome;  but  that  is  the  least  good  about 
him.  He  is  the  most  noble  man!  revered,  respected 
by  every  one;  I  may  say,  loved.  The  .only  one  who 
could  not  appreciate  him  was  his  wife.  However  she 
could  leave  him — how  she  could  even  look  at  another, 
after  calling  Mr.  Carlyle  husband,  will  always  be  a 
marvel  to  those  who  know  him." 

A  bitter  groan — and  it  nearly  escaped  her  lips. 

"That  certainly  is  the  pony-carriage,"  cried  Bar- 
bara, bending  her  ear  again.  "If  so,  how  very  early 
Mr.  Carlyle  is  home!  Yes,  I  am  sure  it  is  the  sound 
of  the  wheels." 

How  Lady  Isabel  sat,  she  scarcely  knew;  how  she 
concealed  her  trepidation,  she  never  would  know.  A 
pause;  an  entrance  to  the  hall;  Barbara,  baby  in  arms, 
advanced  to  the  drawing-room  door,  and  a  tall  form 
entered.  Once  more  Lady  Isabel  was  in  the  presence 
of  her  sometime  husband. 

He  did  not  perceive  that  any  one  was  present,  and 
he  bent  his  head  and  fondly  kissed  his  wife.  Isabel's 
jealous  eyes  were  turned  upon  them.  She  saw  Bar- 
bara's passionate,  lingering  kiss  in  return,  she  heard 
her  fervent,  whispered  greeting,  "My  darling!"  and 
she  watched  him  turn  to  press  the  same  fond  kisses 
on  the  rosy,  open  lips  of  his  child.  Isabel  flung  her 
hands  over  her  face.  Had  she  bargained  for  this?  It 
was  part  of  the  cross  she  had  undertaken  to  carry,  and 
she  must  bear  it. 

Mr.  Carlyle  came  forward  and  saw  her.  He  looked 
somewhat  surprised  "Madame  Vine,"  said  Barbara; 
and  he  held  out  his  hand  and  welcomed  her  in  the 
same  cordial,  pleasant  manner  that  his  wife  had  done. 
She  put  her  shaking  hand  in  his.  There  was  no  help 
for  it.     Little  thought  Mr.  Carlyle  that  that  hand  had 


EAST  LYNNE  283 

been  tenderly  clasped  in  his  a  thousand  times ;  that  it  ] 
was  the  one  pledged  to  him  at  the  altar  at  Castle  Mar-j 
ling. 

She  sat  down  on  the  chair  again,  unable  to  stand, 
feeling  as  though  every  drop  of  blood  within  her  had 
left  her  body.  It  had  certainly  left  her  face.  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  made  a  few  civil  inquiries  as  to  her  journey,  but 
she  did  not  dare  to  raise  her  eyes  to  him,  as  she 
breathed  forth  the  answers. 

"You  are  at  home  soon,  Archibald,"  Barbara 
exclaimed.  '*I  did  not  expect  you  so  early.  I  did 
not  think  you  could  get  away.  I  know  what  the  jus- 
tices' annual  dinner  at  the  Buck's  Head  is;  they  always 
make  it  late." 

**As  they  will  to-night,"  laughed  Mr.  Carlyle.  "I 
watched  my  opportunity,  and  got  away  when  the 
pipes  were  brought  in ;  I  had  determined  to  do  so,  if 
possible.  Dill — who  means  to  stick  it  out  with  the 
best  of  them — has  his  tale  ready  when  they  miss  me. 
'Suddenly  called  away;  important  business;  could  not 
be  helped.'  " 

Barbara  laughed  also.      "Was  papa  there?" 

"Of  course.  He  took  the  table's  head.  What  would 
the  dinner  be  without  the  chairman  of  the  bench,  Bar- 
bara?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  in  papa's  opinion,"  merrily  said 
Barbara.     "Did  you  ask  him  how  mamma  was?" 

"I  asked  him,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle.  And  there  he 
stopped. 

"Well,"  cried  Barbara.     "What  did  he  say?" 

"  'Full  of  nervous  fidgets,'  was  the  answer  he  made 
me,"  returned  Mr.  Carlyle,  with  an  arch  look  at  his 
wife.     "It  was  all  I  could  get  out  of  him." 

"That  is  just  like  papa.  Archibald,  do  you  know 
what  I  have  been  thinking  to-day?" 

"A  great  many  foolish  things,  I  dare  say,"  he 
answered;  but  his  tone  was  a  fond  one;  all  too  palpa- 
bly so  for  one  ear. 

"No,  but  listen.  You  know  papa  is  going  to  Lon- 
don with  Squire  Pinner,  to  see  those  new  agricultural 


284  EAST  LYNNE 

implements — or  whatever  it  is.  They  are  sure  to  be 
away  three  days.     Don't  you  think  so?" 

"And  three  to  the  back  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle, 
with  a  wicked  smile  upon  his  lips.  "When  old  gentle- 
men get  plunged  into  the  attractions  of  London, 
there's  no  answering  for  them  getting  out  of  them  in 
a  hurry,  country  justices  especially.     Well,  Barbara?" 

"I  was  thinking  if  we  could  but  persuade  mamma 
to  come  to  us  for  the  time  he  is  away!  It  would  be  a 
delightful  little  change  for  her,  a  break  in  her  monot- 
onous life." 

"1  wish  you  could,"  warmly  spoke  Mr  Carlyle. 
"Her  life,  since  you  left,  is  a  monotonous  one;  though, 
in  her  gentle  patience,  she  will  not  say  so.  It  is  a 
happy  thought,  Barbara,  and  I  only  hope  it  may  be 
carried  out.  Mrs.  Carlyle's  mother  is  an  invalid,  and 
lonely,  for  she  has  no  child  at  home  with  her  nov/, "  he 
added,  in  a  spirit  of  politeness,  addressing  himself  to 
Madame  Vine. 

She  simply  bowed  her  head ;  she  did  not  trust  her- 
self to  speak.  Mr.  Carlyle  scanned  her  face  atten- 
tively, as  she  sat,  her  head  bent  downward.  She  did 
not  appear  inclined  to  be  sociable,  and  he  turned  to 
the  baby,  who  was  wider  awake  than  ever. 

"Young  sir,  I  should  like  to  know  what  brings  you 
up,  and  here,  at  this  hour?" 

"You  may  well  ask,"  said  Barbara.  "I  had  him 
brought  down,  as  you  were  not  here,  thinking  he 
would  be  asleep  directly.  And  only  look  at  him!  no 
more  sleep  in  his  eyes  than  in  mine!" 

She  would  have  hushed  him  to  her  as  she  spoke,  but 
the  young  gentleman  stoutly  repudiated  it.  He  set  up 
a  half  cry,  and  struggled  his  arms  and  head  free 
again,  crowing  the  next  moment  most  impudently. 
Mr.  Carlyle  took  him. 

"It  is  of  no  use,  Barbara;  he  is  beyond  5^our  coaxing 
this  evening,"  and  he  tossed  the  child  in  his  strong 
arms,  held  him  up  to  the  chandelier,  made  him  bob  at 
the  baby  in  the  pier-glass,  until  the  baby  was  in  an 
ecstasy    of   delight.     Finally    he    smothered    his   face 


EAST  LYNNE  285 

with  kisses,  as  Barbara  had  done.     Barbara  rang  the 
bell. 

Oh!  can  you  imagine  what  it  was  for  Lady  Isabel? 
So  had  he  tossed,  so  had  he  kissed  her  children,  she 
standing  by,  the  fond,  proud,  happy  mother,  as  Bar- 
bara was  standing  now.  Mr.  Carlyle  came  up  to 
her. 

"Are  you  fond  of  these  little  troubles,  Madame 
Vine?     This  one  is  a  fine  fellow,  they  say." 

"Very  fine.  What  is  his  name?"  she  replied  by  way 
of  saying  something. 

"Arthur." 

"Arthur  Archibald,"  put  in  Barbara  to  Madame 
Vine.  "I  was  vexed  that  his  name  could  not  be 
entirely  Archibald,  but  that  was  already  monopolized. 
Is  it  you,  Wilson?  I  don't  know  what  you'll  do  with 
him,  but  he  looks  as  if  he  would  not  be  asleep  by 
twelve  o'clock. " 

Wilson  satisfied  her  curiosity  by  taking  another  pro- 
longed stare  at  Madame  Vine,  received  the  baby  from 
Mrs.  Carlyle,  and  departed  with  him. 

IMadame  Vine  rose.  Would  they  excuse  her?  she 
asked  in  a  low  tone;  she  was  tired,  and  would  be  glad 
•to  retire  to  rest. 

Of  course.  And  would  she  ring  for  anything  she 
might  wish  in  the  way  of  refreshments?  Barbara 
shook  hands  with  her,  in  her  friendly  way;  and  Mr. 
Carlyle  crossed  the  room  to  open  the  door  for  her,  and 
bowed  her  out  with  a  courtly  smile. 

She  went  up  to  her  chamber  at  once.  To  rest? 
Well,  what  think  you?  She  strove  to  say  to  her  lacer- 
ated and  remorseful  heart  that  the  cross — far  heavier 
though  it  was  proving  than  anything  she  had  imag- 
ined or  pictured — was  only  what  she  had  brought  upon 
herself,  and  must  bear.  Very  true ;  but  none  of  us 
would  like  such  a  cross  to  be  upon  our  shoulders. 

"Is  she  not  droll-looking?"  cried  Barbara,  when  she 
was  alone  with  Mr.  Carlyle.  "1  can't  think  why  she 
wears  those  blue  spectacles;  it  cannot  be  for  her 
sight,  and  they  are  very  disfiguring." 


286  EAST  LYNNE 

She  puts  me  in  mind  of— of "  began  Mr.  Carlyle, 

in  a  dreamy  tone. 

"Of  whom?" 

''Her  face,  I  mean,"  he  said,  still  dreaming. 

"So  little  can  be  seen  of  it,"  returned  Mrs.  Carlyle. 
"Of  whom  does  she  put  you  in  mind?" 

"I  don't  know.  Nobody  in  particular,"  returned 
he,  rousing  himself.      "Letnis  have  tea  in,  Barbara." 


CHAPTER  XLI 

THE  YEARNING  OF  A  BREAKING  HEART 

At  her  bed-room  door,  the  next  morning,  stood  Lady 

Isabel,  listening  whether  the  coast  was  clear,  ere  she 

descended  to  the  gray  parlor,  for  she  had  a  shrinking 

dread  of  encountering   Mr.    Carlyle.       When   he  was 

r  glancing  narrowly  at  her  face  the  previous  evening, 

\    she  had  felt  the   gaze,   and  it_impressed  upon  her  a 

\   dread  of  his  recognition.      Not  only  that;  he  w'as~tHe 

I  husband  of  another;  therefore  it  was  not  expedient 

M:hat  she   should   see  too  much  of  him,  for  he  was  far 

dearer  to  her  heart  than  he  had  ever  been. 

Almost  at  the  same  moment  there  burst  out  of  a 
remote  room — the  nursery — an  upright,  fair,  noble 
boy,  of  some  five  years  old,  who  began  careening 
along  the  corrider,  astride  upon  a  hearth-broom.  She 
did  not  need  to  be  told  that  it  was  her  boy,  Archibald, 
his  likeness  to  Mr.  Carlyle  would  have  proclaimed  it, 
even  if  her  heart  had  not.  In  an  impulse  of  unre- 
strainable  tenderness,  she  seized  the  child  as  he  was 
galloping  past  her,  and  carried  him  into  her  room, 
broom  and  all. 

"You  must  let  me  make  acquaintance  with  you," 
said  she  to  him,  by  way  of  excuse.  "I  love  little 
boys." 

Love!  Down  she  sat  upon  a  low  chair,  the  child 
held  upon  her  lap,  kissing  him  passionately,  and  the 
tears  raining  from  her  eyes.  She  could  not  have 
helped  the  tears,  had  it  been  to  save  her  life ;  she  could 


EAST  LYNNE  287 

as  little  have  helped  the  kisses.  Lifting  her  eyes, 
there  stood  Wilson,  who  had  entered  without  cere- 
mony. A  sick  feeling  came  over  Lady  Isabel ;  she  felt 
as  if  she  had  betrayed  herself.  All  that  could  be  done 
now  to  make  the  best  of  it — to  offer  some  lam.e  excuse. 
What  possessed  her  thus  to  forget  herself? 

"He  put  me  in  remembrance  of  my  own  children," 
she  said  to  Wilson,  gulping  down  her  emotion,  and 
hiding  her  tears  in  the  best  manner  she  could;  while 
the  astonished  Archibald,  now  released,  stood  with  his 
finger  in  his  mouth  and  stared  at  her  spectacles,  his 
great  blue  eyes  opened  to  their  utmost  width.  "When 
we  have  lost  children  of  our  own,  we  are  apt  to  love 
fondly  all  v/e  come  near." 

Wilson,  who  stared  only  in  a  less  degree  than  Archie, 
for  she  deemed  the  new  governess  had  gone  suddenly 
mad,  gave  some  voluble  assent,  and  turned  her  atten- 
tion upon  Archie.  "You  naughty  young  monkey,  how 
dared  you  rush  out  in  that  way  with  Sarah's  hearth- 
broom?  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  sir;  you  are  getting 
too  owdacious  and  rumbustical  for  the  nursery;  I  shall 
speak  to  your  mamma  about  it."  She  seized  hold  of 
the  child  and  shook  him.  Lady  Isabel  started  for- 
ward, her  hands  up,  her  voice  one  of  painful  entreaty: 
"Oh,  don't,  don't  beat  him!  1  cannot  see  him 
beaten." 

"Beaten!"  echoed  Wilson;  "if  he  got  a  good  beating 
it  would  be  all  the  better  for  him;  but  it's  what  he 
never  does  get.  A  little  shake,  or  a  tap,  is  all  I  must 
give;  and  it's  not  half  enough.  You  wouldn't  believe 
the  sturdy  impudence  of  that  boy,  madame ;  he  runs 
riot,  he  does.  The  other  two  never  gave  a  quarter  of 
the  trouble.  Come  along,  you  figure!  I'll  have  a  bolt 
put  up  at  the  top  of  the  nursery  door.  And  if  I  did, 
he'd  be  for  climbing  up  the  doorpost  to  get  at  it." 

The  last  sentence  Wilson  delivered  to  the  governess, 
as  she  jerked  Archie  out  of  the  room,  along  the  pas- 
sage and  into  the  nursery.  Lady  Isabel  sat  down  with 
a  wrung  heart,  a  chafed  spirit.  Her  own  child!  and 
she  might  not  say  to  the  servant,  You  shall  not  beat 


288  EAST  LYNNE 

him!  She  descended  to  the  gray  parlor.  The  t\^o 
elder  children,  and  breakfast,  were  waiting;  Joyce 
quitted  the  room  when  she  entered  it. 

A  graceful  girl  of  eight  years  old,  a  fragile  boy  a 
year  younger,  both  bearing  her  own  once  lovely  fea- 
tures, her  once  bright  and  delicate  complexion,  her 
large,  soft,  brown  eyes.  How  utterly  her  heart 
yearned  to  them !  but  there  must  be  no  scene  like  there 
had  just  been  above.  Nevertheless,  she  stooped  and 
kissed  them  both;  one  kiss  each  of  impassioned  fervor. 
Lucy  was  naturally  silent,  William  somewhat  talkative. 

"You  are  our  nev^  governess,"  said  he. 

"Yes.     We  must  be  good  friends." 

"Why  not?"  said  the  boy.  "We  were  good  friends 
with  Miss  Manning.  I  am  to  go  into  Latin  soon,  as 
soon  as  my  cough's  gone.      Do  you  knov/  Latin?" 

' '  No.  Not  to  teach  it,  "  she  said,  studiously  avoiding 
all  endearing  epithets. 

"Papa  said  you  would  be  almost  sure  not  to  know 
Latin,  for  that  ladies  rarely  did.  He  said  he  should 
send  up  Mr.  Kane  to  teach  me." 

"Mr.  Kane!"  repeated  Lady  Isabel,  the  name  strik- 
ing upon  her  memory.  "Mr.  Kane,  the  m.usic- 
master?" 

"How  did  you  know  he  was  a  music-master?"  cried 
shrewd  William.  And  Lady  Isabel  felt  the  red  blood 
flush  to  her  face  at  the  unlucky  admission  she  had 
made.  It  flushed  deeper  at  her  own  falsehood  as  she 
niuttered  some  evasive  words  about  hearing  of  him 
from  Mrs.  Latimer. 

"Yes,  he  is  a  music-master;  but  he  does  not  get 
much  money  by  it,  as  he  teaches  the  classics  as  well. 
He  has  come  to  teach  us  music  since  Miss  Manning 
left;  mamma  said  that  we  ought  not  to  lose  our  les- 
sons." 

Mamma!  How  the  word,  applied  to  Barbara, 
grated  on  her  ear. 

"Whom  does  he  teach?"  she  asked. 

'•Us  two,"  replied  William,  pointing  to  his  sister 
and  himself. 


EAST  LYNNE  289 

"Do  you  always  take  bread  and  milk  for  breakfast?" 
she  inquired,  perceiving  that  to  be  what  they  were 
eating. 

"We  get  tired  of  it  sometimes,  and  then  we  have 
milk  and  water  and  bread  and  butter,  or  honey;  and 
then  we  take  to  bread  and  milk  again.  It's  Aunt 
Cornelia  who  thinks  we  should  eat  bread  and  milk 
for  breakfast;  she  says  papa  never  had  anything  else 
when  he  was  a  boy." 

Lucy  looked  up.  "Papa  would  give  me  an  egg 
when  I  breakfasted  with  him,"  she  cried,  "and  Aunt 
Cornelia  said  it  was  not  good  for  me,  but  papa  gave  it 
to  me  all  the  same.  I  always  had  breakfast  with  him 
then." 

"And  why  do  you  not  now?"  asked  Lady  Isabel. 

"1  don't  know.      I  have  not  since  mamma  came." 

The  word  "stepmother"  rose  up  rebelliously  in  the 
heart  of  Lady  Isabel.  Was  Mrs.  Carlyle  putting 
away  the  children  from  their  father? 

Breakfast  over,  she  gathered  them  to  her,  asking 
them  various  questions  about  their  studies,  their  hours 
of  recreation,  the  daily  routine  of  their  lives. 

"This  is  not  the  school-room,  you  know,"  cried 
William,  when  she  made  some  inquiries  as  to  their 
books. 

"No?" 

"The  school-room  is  upstairs.  This  is  for  our 
meals,  and  for  you  in  the  evening." 

The  voice  of  Mr.  Carlyle  was  heard  at  this  juncture 
in  the  hall,  and  Lucy  was  springing  toward  the  sound. 
Lady  Isabel,  fearful  lest  he  might  enter  if  the  child 
showed  herself,  stopped  her  with  a  hurried  hand. 

"Stay  her,  Isabel." 

"Her  name's  Lucy,"  said  William,  looking  quickly 
up.     "Why  do  you  call  her  Isabel?" 

"I  thought — I  thought  I  heard  her  called  Isabel," 
stammered  the  unfortunate  lady,  feeling  quite  con- 
fused with  the  errors  she  was  committing.  "My  name 
is  Isabel  Lucy,"  said  the  child,  "but  I  don't  know  who 
could  have  told  you,  for  I  am  never  called  Isabel.       I 

19  Lynne 


290  EAST  LYNNE 

have  not  been,  since— since — shall  I  tell  you? — since 
mamma  went  away,"  she  concluded,  dropping  her 
voice.     "Mamma  that  was,  you  know." 

"Did  she  go?"  cried  Lady  Isabel,  full  of  emotion 
and  possessing  a  very  faint  idea  of  what  she  was 
saying. 

"She  was  kidnapped,"  whispered  Lucy. 

"Kidnapped!"  was  the  surprised  answer. 

"Yes,  or  she  would  not  have  gone.  There  was  a 
wicked  man  on  a  visit  to  papa,  and  he  stole  her.  Wil- 
son said  she  knew  he  was  a  kidnapper  before  he  took 
mamma.  Papa  said  I  was  never  to  be  called  Isabel 
again,  but  Lucy.     Isabel  was  mamma's  name." 

"How  do  you  know  your  papa  said  it?"  dreamily 
returned  Lady  Isabel. 

"I  heard  him.  He  said  it  to  Joyce,  and  Joyce  told 
the  servants.  I  put  only  Lucy  to  my  copies.  I  did 
put  Isabel  Lucy,  but  papa  saw  it  one  day,  and  he  drew 
his  pencil  through  Isabel,  and  told  me  to  show  it  to 
Miss  Manning,  After  that,  Miss  Manning  let  me  put 
nothing  but  Lucy.  I  asked  her  why,  and  she  told  me 
papa  preferred  the  name,  and  that  I  was  not  to  ask 
questions." 

She  could  not  well  stop  the  child,  but  every  word 
was  rending  her  heart.  "Lady  Isabel  was  our  very 
own  mamma,"  pursued  Lucy.  "This  mamma  is 
not." 

"Do  you  love  this  one  as  you  did  the  other?" 
breathed  Lady  Isabel.  "Oh,  I  loved  mamma!  I  loved 
mamma!"  uttered  Lucy,  clasping  her  hands.  "But 
it's  all  over.  Wilson  said  we  must  not  love  her  any 
longer,  and  Aunt  Cornelia  said  it.  Wilson  said  if  she 
had  loved  us  she  would  not  have  gone  away  from 
us." 

"Wilson  said  so?"  resentfully  spoke  Lady  Isabel. 

"She  said  she  need  not  have  let  that  man  kidnap 
her.  I  am  afraid  he  beat  her,  for  she  died.  I  lie  in 
my  bed  at  night  and  wonder  whether  he  did  beat  her, 
and  what  made  her  die.  It  was  after  she  died  that 
our  new  mamma  came  home.      Papa  said  she  was  come 


EAST  LYNNE  291 

to  be  our  mamma  in  place  of  Lady  Isabel,   and  we 
were  to  love  her  dearly." 

*'Do  you  love  her?"  almost  passionately  asked  Lady 
Isabel.  Lucy  shook  her  head.  "Not  as  1  loved 
mamma." 


CHAPTER  XLII 

THE   GREATEST   OF   THESE    IS    LOVE 

They  were  at  tea  in  the  gray  parlor,  Lady  Isabel 
and  the  two  children,  when  William  was  seized  with  a 
fit  of  coughing.  It  was  long  and  violent.  Lady  Isabel 
left  her  seat;  she  had  drawn  him  to  her,  and  was  hang- 
ing over  him  with  unguarded  tenderness,  when,  hap- 
pening to  lift  her  eyes,  they  fell  upon  Mr.  Carlyle. 
He  had  been  descending  the  stairs,  on  his  way  from 
his  dressing-room,  heard  the  cough,  and  came  in. 
Had  Lady  Isabel  been  killing  the  boy  she  could  not 
have  dropped  him  more  suddenly. 

"You  possess  a  natural  love  for  children,  I  perceive," 
he  said,  looking  at  her  with  his  sweet  smile. 

She  did  not  know  what  she  answered;  some  con- 
fused, murmured  words.  If  Mr.  Carlyle  made  sense 
of  them,  he  was  clever.  Into  the  darkest  corner  of 
the  room  retreated  she. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  interrupted  Mrs.  Carlyle, 
looking  in.  She  also  had  been  descending,  and  was 
in  her  dinner  dress.  Mr.  Carlyle  had  the  boy  on  his 
own  knee  then. 

"William's  cough  is  troublesome.  I  don't  like  it, 
Barbara.      I  shall  have  Wainwright  up  again." 

"It's  nothing,"  said  Barbara.  "He  was  at  his  tea; 
perhaps  a  crumb  went  the  wrong  way.  Dinner  is 
waiting,  Archibald." 

Mr.  Carlyle  put  the  boy  down,  but  stood  for  a  minute 
looking  at  him.  The  cough  over,  he  was  pale  and 
exhausted,  all  his  brilliant  color  gone;  it  was  too  bril- 
liant, as  Afy  had  said.  Mrs.  Carlyle  entwined  her  arm 
within  her  husband's,  but  turned  her  head  to  speak 
as  they  were  walking  away. 


292  EAST  LYNNE 

"You  will  come  into  the  drawing-room  by-and-by 
with  Miss  Lucy,  Madame  Vine.  We  wish  to  hear  you 
play." 

Miss  Lucy!  And  it  was  spoken  in  the  light  of  a 
command.  Well?  Barbara  was  Mrs.  Carlyle,  and  she 
^vas — what  she  was.  Once  more  she  drew  to  her  her 
first-born  son,  and  laid  her  aching  forehead  upon 
him. 

"Do  5'ou  cough  at  night,  my  darling  child?" 

"Not  much,"  he  answered.  "Joyce  puts  me  some 
jam  by  the  bed-side,  and  if  I  have  a  fit  of  coughing  I 
eat  that.     It's  black  currant." 

"He  means  jelly,"  interposed  Lucy,  her  mouth  full 
of  bread  and  butter.     "It  is  black  currant  jelly." 

"Yes,  jelly,"  said  William..     "It's  all  the  same." 

"Does  any  one  sleep  in  your  room?"  she  inquired 
of  hirn. 

"No.     I  have  a  room  to  myself." 

She  fell  into  deep  thought,  wondering  whether  they 
would  let  a  little  bed  be  put  up  in  her  room  for  him, 
Wondering  whether  she  might  dare  to  ask  it.  Who 
could  watch  over  him  and  attend  to  him  as  she  would? 
In  this  one  day's  intercourse  with  William  she  had 
become  aware  that  he  was  possessed  of  that  preco- 
cious intellect  which  too  frequently  attends  weakness 
of  body.  He  had  the  sense  of  a  boy  of  fourteen, 
instead  of  one  of  seven;  his  conversation  betrayed  it. 
"Knowing,"  "understands  more  than's  good  for  a 
child,"  say  old  wives,  as  they  look  and  listen,  coupling 
their  remark  with  another,  "he'll  never  live." 

"Should  you  like  to  sleep  in  my  room?"  asked  Lady 
Isabel. 

"1  don't  know.    Why  should  I  sleep  in  your  room?" 

"I  could  attend  to  you;  could  give  you  jelly,  or 
anything  else  3^ou  might  require,  if  you  v/ere  to  cough 
in  the  night.  I  would  love  you,  I  would  be  tender 
with  you  as  your  own  mamma  could  have  been." 

"Mamma  did  not  love  us!"  cried  he.  "Had  she 
loved  us  she  would  not  have  left  us." 

"She    did    love    us!"   exclaimed    Lucy,    somewhat 


EAST  LYNNE  293 

fiercely.  "Joyce  says  she  did,  and  I  remember  it.  It 
wasn't  her  fault  that  she  was  kidnapped." 

"You  be  quiet,  Lucy;  girls  know  nothing  about 
things.      Mamma " 

"Child,  child,"  interposed  Lady  Isabel,  the  scalding 
tears  filling  her  eyes,  "your  mamma  did  love  you — 
loved  you  dearly — loved  you  as  she  could  never  love 
anything  again." 

"You  can't  tell  that,  Madame  Vine,"  persisted 
William,  disposed  to  be  resolute.  "You  were  not 
here;  you  did  not  know  mamma." 

"I  am  sure  she  must  have  loved  you,"  was  all 
Madame  Vine  dared  to  answer.  "I  have  been  here 
but  a  day,  and  1  have  learned  to  love  you.  I  love  you 
already,  very,  very  much." 

She  pressed  her  lips  to  his  hot  cheeks  as  she  spoke, 
and  the  rebellious  tears  would  not  be  restrained,  but 
fell  on  it  also. 

"Why  do  you  cry?"  asked  William. 

"I  once,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  tone,  "lost  a  dear 
little  boy  like  you,  and  I  am  so  glad  to  have  you  to 
replace  him.     I  have  had  nothing  to  love  since." 

"What  was  his  name?"  cried  curious  William. 

"William."  But  the  word  was  scarcely  out  of  her 
lips  before  she  thought  how  foolish  she  was  to  say  it 

"William  Vine,"  cogitated  the  boy.  "Did  he  speak 
French  or  English?  His  papa  was  French,  was  he 
not?" 

"He  spoke  English.  But  you  have  not  finished 
your  tea,"  she  added,  finding  the  questions  were 
becoming  close. 

It  was  Barbara's  custom,  when  they  were  at  home,  to 
leave  Mr.  Carlyle  at  the  dessert-table,  and  to  go  up  for 
a  few  minutes  to  her  baby  before  entering  the  drawing- 
room.  As  she  was  descending  on  this  evening,  she 
saw  Lucy,  who  was  peeping  out  of  the  gray  parlor. 

"May  we  come  in  now,  mamma?" 

"Yes.     Ask  Madame  Vine  to  bring  in  some  music." 

Madame  Vine,  delaying  as  long  as  she  dared,  arrived 
at  the  drawing-room  door  at  an  inopportune  moment, 


294  EAST  LYNNE 

for  Mr.  Carlyle  was  just  coming  from  the  dining-room. 
She  paused  when  she  saw  him ;  her  first  impulse  was 
to  retreat;  but  he  looked  round  and  appeared  to  wait 
for  her.     Lucy  had  already  gone  in. 

"Madame  Vine, "  he  began,  his  hand  upon  the  door- 
handle, and  his  tone  suppressed,  "have  you  had  much 
experience  in  the  ailments  of  children?" 

She  was  about  to  answer  "No;"  for  her  own  chil- 
dren, so  long  as  she  had  been  with  them,  were  remark- 
ably healthy.  But  she  remembered  that  she  was  sup- 
posed to  have  lost  four  by  death,  and  must  speak 
accordingly. 

"Not  a  very  great  deal,  sir.     Somewhat,  of  course." 

"Does  it  strike  you  that  this  is  an  ugly  cough  of 
William's?" 

"I  think  that  he  wants  care;  that  he  should  be  con- 
tinually watched,  especially  at  night.  1  was  wishing 
.that  he  might  be  allowed  to  sleep  in  my  room,"  she 
added, some  strong  impulse  prompting  her  to  prefer  this 
request  to  Mr.  Carlyle,  trembling  inwardly  and  out- 
wardly as  she  did  so.  "His  bed  could  be  readily 
moved  in,  and  I  would  attend  to  him,  sir,  as — as — I 
would  attend  more  cautiously  than  any  servant  would 
be  likely  to  do  * 

"By  no  means,'  warmly  responded  Mr.  Carlyle. 
"We  would  not  think  of  giving  you  the  trouble.  He  is 
not  ill  to  require  night- nursing;  and,  if  he  were,  our 
servants  are  to  be  depended  on." 

"I  am  so  fond  of  children,"  she  ventured  to  plead. 
"I  have  already  taken  a  great  liking  for  this  one,  and 
would  wish  to  make  his  health  my  care  by  night  and 
by  day.     It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  me." 

"You  are  truly  kind.  But  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Carlyle 
would  not  hear  of  it;  it  would  be  taxing  you  unrea- 
sonably." 

His  tone  was  one  of  decision,  and  he  opened  the 
door  for  her  to  pass  in. 

An  evening  to  herself  in  the  gray  parlor.  A  terrible 
evening;  one  made  up  of  remorse,  grief,  rebellion,  and 
bitter  repentance;  repentance  of  the  wretched   past. 


EAST  LYNNE  295 

rebellion  at  existing  things.  Between  nine  and  ten  she 
dragged  herself  upstairs,  purposing  to  retire  to  rest. 

As  she  was  about  to  enter  her  chamber,  Sarah,  Wil- 
son's assistant  in  the  nursery,  was  passing,  and  a  sud- 
den thought  occurred  to  Lady  Isabel.  "In  which 
room  does  Master  Carlyle  sleep?"  she  asked.  "Is  it 
on  this  floor?" 

The  girl  pointed  to  a  near  door.  "In  there, 
ma'am." 

Lady  Isabel  watched  her  downstairs  and  then 
entered  the  room  softly.  A  little  white  bed,  and  Wil- 
liam's beautiful  face  lying  on  it.  His  cheeks  were 
flushed,  his  hands  were  thrown  out,  as  if  with  inward 
fever;  but  he  was  sleeping  quietly.  By  the  bedside 
stood  a  saucer,  some  currant  jelly  in  it,  and  a  teaspoon: 
there  was  also  a  glass  of  water. 

She  glided  down  upon  her  knees  and  let  her  face 
I  est  on  the  bolster  beside  him,  her  breath  in  contact 
with  his.  Her  eyes  were  wet ;  but  that  she  might  wake 
him,  she  would  have  taken  the  sleeper  on  to  her 
bosom,  and  caressed  him  there.  Death  for  him?  She 
could  hardly  think  it. 

"My  gracious  heart  alive!  Seeing  a  light  here,  if  I 
didn't  think  the  room  was  on  fire.  It  did  give  me  a 
turn." 

The  speaker  was  Wilson,  who  had  discerned  the 
light  in  passing  the  door.  Lady  Isabel  sprang  up  as 
though  she  had  been  shot.  She  feared  the  detection 
of  Wilson  and  Joyce  more  than  she  feared  that  of  Mrs. 
Carlyle. 

"I  am  looking  at  Master  William,"  she  said,  as 
calmly  as  she  could  speak.  ' '  Mr.  Carlyle  appears  some- 
what uneasy  respecting  his  cough.  He  has  a  flushed, 
delicate  look." 

"It  is  nothing, "  returned  Wilson.  "It's  just  the 
look  that  his  mother  had.  The  first  time  I  saw  her, 
nothing  would  convince  me  but  what  she  had  got 
paint  on." 

"Good-night,"  was  all  the  reply  made  by  Lady 
Isabel,  as  she  retreated  to  her  own  room. 


296  EAST  LYNNE 

^'Good-night,  madame,"  replied  Wilson,  returning 
toward  the  nursery.  "I'll  be  blest  if  1  know  what  to 
think  of  that  French  governess!"  she  mentally  contin- 
ued. *'I  hope  it  may  turn  cut  that  she's  not  deranged, 
that's  aU  " 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

AN   M.    P.    FOR   WEST   LYNNE 

*' Barbara,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle  one  day,  '*what  should 
you  say  to  living  in  London  for  a  few  months  out  of 
the  twelve?" 

"London?  I  am  very  happy  where  I  am.  Why 
should  you  ask  me  that?  You  are  not  going  to  live  in 
London." 

"I  am  not  sure  of  that.  1  think  I  am,  for  a  portion 
of  the  year.  I  have  had  an  offer  made  me  this  after- 
noon, Barbara." 

She  looked  at  him,  wondering  what  he  meant;  won- 
dering whether  he  was  serious.  An  offer  to  him? 
What  sort  of  an  offer?     Of  what  nature  could  it  be? 

He  smiled  at  her  perplexity.  "Should  you  like  to 
see  M.  P.  attached  to  my  name?  West  Lynne  wants 
me  to  become  its  member." 

A  pause  to  take  in  the  news,  a  sudden  rush  of  color, 
and  then  she  gleefully  clasped  her  hands  rOund  his 
arm,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  pleasure. 

"Oh,  Archibald,  how  glad  I  am!  I  knew  you  were 
appreciated;  and  you  will  be  appreciated  more  and 
more.  This  is  right;  it  was  not  well  for  you  to  re- 
main for  life  a  private  individual,  a  country  lawyer." 

"I  am  perfectly  contented  with  my  lot,  Barbara," 
he  said,  seriously.     "I  am  too  busy  to  be  otherwise." 

"I  know  that  were  you  but  a  laboring  man,  toiling 
daily  for  the  bread  you  eat,  you  would  be  contented, 
feeling  that  you  were  fulfilling  your  appointed  duty  to 
the  utmost;  but,  Archibald,  could  you  not  be  still  a 
busy  man  at  West  Lynne,  although  you  should  be- 
come its  representative?" 


EAST  LYNNE  297 

"If  I  could  not,  I  would  not  accept  the  honor,  Bar- 
bara. For  some  few  months  of  the  year  I  must  of 
necessity  be  in  town,  but  Dill  is  an  efficient  substitute; 
and  I  can  run  down  for  a  week  or  so  between  times. 
Part  of  Saturday,  Sunday,  and  part  of  Monday  I  can 
always  pass  here,  if  I  please.  Of  course  these  changes 
have  their  drawbacks,  as  well  as  their  advantages." 

''Where  would  be  the  drawbacks  in  this?"  she  inter- 
rupted. 

"Well,"  smiled  Mr.  Carlyle,  "in  the  first  place,  I 
suppose  you  could  not  always  be  with  me." 

Her  hands  fell;  her  color  faded.     "Oh,  Archibald!" 

"If  I  do  become  their  member  I  must  go  up  to  town 
as  soon  as  elected;  and  1  don't  think  it  will  do  for  my 
little  wife  to  be  quitting  her  home  to  travel  about  just 
now. ' ' 

Barbara's  face  wore  a  very  blank  look.  She  could 
not  dissent  from  Mr.  Carlyle's  reasoning. 

"And  you  must  remain  in  London  to  the  end  of  the 
session,  while  I  am  here!  Separated!  Archibald," 
she  passionately  added,  while  the  tears  gushed  into  her 
eyes,   "I  could  not  live  without  you." 

"Then  what  is  to  be  done?     Must  I  decline  it?" 

"Decline  it!  Oh,  of  course  not.  I  know  we  are 
looking  on  the  dark  side  of  things.  I  can  go  very  well 
with  you  for  a  month,  perhaps  two." 

"You  think  so?" 

"I  am  sure  so.  And  mind,  you  must  not  encourage 
mamma  to  talk  me  out  of  it,  Archibald,"  she  contin- 
ued, resting  her  head  upon  his  breast,  her  sweet  face 
turned  up  beseechingly  to  his,  "you  would  rather  have 
me  with  you,  would  you  not?" 

He  bent  his  own  down  upon  it.  "What  do  you  think 
about  it,  my  darling?" 

Once  more — an  inopportune  moment  for  her  to 
enter — Lady  Isabel.  Barbara  heard  her  this  time, 
and  sprang  away  from  her  husband.  Mr.  Carlyle 
turned  round  at  the  movement,  and  saw  Madame 
Vine.  She  came  forward;  her  lips  ashy,  her  voice 
subdued. 


298  EAST  LYNNE 

She  had  now  been  six  months  at  East  Lynne,  and 
had  hitherto  escaped  detection.  Time  and  familiarity 
render  us  accustomed  to  most  things,  to  danger  amongst 
the  rest;  and  she  had  almost  ceased  to  fear  recogni- 
tion. She  and  the  children  were  upon  the  best  terms; 
she  had  greatly  endeared  herself  to  them,  and  they 
loved  her;  perhaps  nature  was  asserting  her  own  hid- 
den claims. 

What  of  William?  William  had  been  better  through 
the  winter,  but  with  the  first  blush  of  spring  he  had 
begun  to  fade  again.  He  was  constantly  weary,  had 
frequent  pain  in  his  side,  and  his  appetite  failed,  Mr. 
Wainwright  attended  him^  daily  now.  In  the  day  he 
looked  tolerably  well,  for  the  exceeding  beauty  and 
brightness  of  his  complexion  disarmed  suspicion;  but 
toward  evening,  as  soon  as  twilight  came  on,  his  ill- 
ness showed  itself  outwardly.  His  face  would  be  of  a 
pallid  whiteness,  he  could  scarcely  speak  for  weakness, 
and  his  favorite  resting-place  was  the  hearth-rug  in 
the  gray  parlor.  There  he  would  lie  down  at  full 
length,  a  cushion  under  his  head,  and  his  eyes  closed. 

"My  child,"  Madame  Vine  would  say  to  him,  "you 
would  be  better  on  the  sofa." 

"No.     I  like  this." 

"But  if  I  draw  it  quite  close  to  the  fire  for  you? 
Try  it,   William." 

He  did,  one  or  two  evenings,  and  then  the  old  place 
was  resumed,  and  he  would  not  quit  it.  He  was 
lying  there,  as  usual,  on  this  evening,  when  Hannah 
came  in  with  the  tea-things.  She  gazed  down  for  a 
minute  or  two  at  the  boy,  v/hom  she  supposed  to  be 
sleeping,  so  still  and  full  of  repose  did  he  look,  and 
then  turned  to  Madame  Vine: 

"Poor  child!  he's  one  that's  going  fast  on  to  his 
grave." 

The  words  utterly  startled  her.  Daily  familiarity 
with  illness  sometimes  renders  us  partially  blind  to  it's 
worst  features,  and  thus  it  had  been  with  Lady  Isabel. 
Upon  her  arrival  at  East  Lynne,  she  had  been,  if 
not  alarmed,    much   concerned   at  the  appearance  of 


EAST  LYNNE  299 

William;  the  winter  improvement  had  dispelled  that 
concern ;  while  the  spring  change  had  come  on  so  grad- 
ually that  her  fears  had  not  taken  alarm.  She  judged 
him  to  be  a  delicate  boy,  one  who  required  care. 

*' Hannah!*'  she  uttered,  in  a  tone  of  reproof,  to  the 
servant. 

"Why,  ma'am,  I  wonder  that  you  can't  see  it  your- 
self!" returned  Hannah.  **It's  plain,  poor  lad,  that 
he  has  no  mother,  or  there  would  have  been  an  outcry 
over  him  long  ago.  Of  course  Mrs.  Carlyle  can't  be 
expected  to  have  the  feelings  of  one  for  him ;  and  as 
to  old  Wainwright,  he's  as  blind  as  any  bat.** 

She  took  the  reproach  to  herself,  and  it  smote  upon 
her  heart;  had  she  been  blind — she,  his  mother? 

"There  is  nothing  particular  the  matter  with  him, 
Hannah.  He  is  only  weakly."  But  she  spoke  these 
words  in  braving  defiance  of  her  thoughts;  anxious, 
if  we  may  so  say  it,  to  deceive  herself.  Even  as  she 
gave  expression  to  them,  her  pulses  were  going  pit-a- 
pat  v/ith  the  fear,  the  next  to  certainty,  that  there  was 
worse  the  matter  with  him. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

SIR  FRANCIS   LEVISON  AT  HOME 

Wonders  never  cease.  Surprises  are  the  lot  of  man. 
But  perhaps  a  greater  surprise  had  never  been  experi- 
enced by  those  who  knew  him,  than  when  it  went 
forth  to  the  world  that  Sir  Francis  Levison  had  con- 
verted himself  from — from  what  he  was,  into  a  red- 
hot  politician. 

Had  he  been  offered  the  post  of  prime  minister?  Or 
did  his  conscience  smite  him? — as  was  the  case  with  a 
certain  gallant  captain  renowned  in  song.  Neither 
the  one  nor  the  other  The  simple  fact  was  that  Sir 
Francis  Levison  was  in  a  state  of  pecuniary  embarrass- 
ment, and  required  something  to  prop  him  up — some 
snug  sinecure ;  plenty  to  get  and  nothing  to  do. 

"He  in  pecuniary  embarrassment!"  cries  the  reader. 


300  EAST  LYNNE 

"How  could  that  be?"  No  easier  thing  **to  be"  in 
this  world,  if  a  man  plunges  into  the  amusements 
favored  by  Francis  Levison.  When  he  came  into  his 
fortune  there  was  a  weighty  amount  to  pay  for  debts 
and  damages,  a  far  larger  amount  than  he  had  believed. 
Not  a  farthing,  beyond  what  was  obliged  to  come  to 
him  by  entail,  did  Sir  Peter  leave  him ;  but  of  that 
which  remained  he  was  no  sooner  in  possession  than 
he  began  to  squander  right  and  left. 

In  a  handsome  drawing-room  in  Eaton  Square,  one 
sunny  afternoon,  sat  a  lady,  young  and  handsome. 
Her  eyes  were  of  a  violet  blue,  her  hair  was  auburn, 
her  complexion  delicate.  But  there  was  a  stern  look 
of  anger,  amounting  to  sullenness,  on  her  well-formed 
features,  and  her  pretty  foot  was  beating  the  carpet  in 
passionate  impatience.     It  was  Lady  Levison. 

The  doings  of  the  past  had  been  coming  home  to  her 
for  some  time  now ;  past  doings,  be  they  good  or  be 
they  ill,  are  sure  to  come  home  one  day  or  another,, 
and  to  bring  their  fruits  with  them.  If  you  sow  wheat 
it  will  come  up  wheat,  gladdening  you  with  its  good; 
if  you  sow  noxious  weeds,  noxious  weeds  spring  forth, 
and  you  m.ust  do  battle  with  them  as  you  best  can.  It  is 
the  inevitable  law  of  nature,  and  none  can  flee  from  it. 

In  the  years  past,  many  years  past  now,  Francis 
Levison  had  lost  his  heart — or  whatever  the  thing 
might  be  that,  with  him,  did  duty  for  one — to  Blanche 
Challoner.  He  had  despised  her  once  to  Lady  Isabel 
— but  that  was  done  to  suit  his  own  purpose,  for  he 
had  never,  at  any  period,  cared  for  Lady  Isabel  as  he 
had  cared  for  Blanche.  He  gained  her  affections  in 
secret,  and  in  secret  they  engaged  themselves  to  each 
other.  Blanche's  sister,  Lydia  Challoner,  two  years 
older  than  himself,  suspected  it,  and  taxed  Blanche 
with  it.  Blanche,  true  to  her  compact  of  keeping  it  a 
secret,  denied  it  with  many  protestations.  "She  did 
not  care  for  Captain  Levison;  rather  disliked  him,  in 
fact."  "So  much  the  better,"  was  Miss  Challoner's 
reply;  for  she  had  no  respect  for  Captain  Levison,  and 
deemed  him  an  unlikely  man  to  marry. 


EAST  LV'NNE  301 

He  played  fast  and  loose  with  her,  professing  attach- 
ment for  her  in  secret,  and  visiting  at  the  house.  Per- 
haps he  feared  an  outbreak  from  her,  an  exposure  that 
might  prove  anything  but  pleasant,  did  he  throw  off 
all  relations  between  them.  Blanche  summoned  up 
her  courage  and  spoke  to  him,  urging  the  marriage. 
She  had  not  yet  glanced  at  the  fear  of  his  intention 
of  marrying  her  (had  he  ever  possessed  such)  Vv^as  over. 
Bad  men  are  always  cowards.  Sir  Francis  shrank 
from  an  explanation,  and  so  far  forgot  honor  as  to 
murmur  some  indistinct  promise  that  the  wedding 
should  be  speedy. 

Lydia  Challoner  had  married,  and  been  left  a  well- 
jointured  widow.  She  was  Mrs.  Waring,  and  at  her 
house  resided  Blanche;  for  the  girls  were  orphans. 
Blanche  was  beginning  to  show  symptoms  of  her  nearly 
thirty  years — not  the  years,  but  the  long-continued 
disappointment,  the  heart-burnings,  were  telling  upon 
her.  Her  hair  was  thin,  her  face  was  pinched,  her 
form  had  lost  its  roundness.  "Marry  her,  indeed!" 
scoffed  Sir  Francis  Levison  to  himself. 

There  came  to  Mrs.  Waring's,  upon  a  Christmas 
visit,  a  younger  sister,  Alice  Challoner,  a  fair  girl  of 
twenty  years.  She  resided  generally  with  an  aunt  in 
the  country.  Far  more  beautiful  was  she  than  Blanche 
had  ever  been.  And  Francis  Levison,  who  had  not 
seen  her  since  she  was  a  child,  fell — as  he  would  have 
called  it — in  love  with  her.  Love !  He  became  her 
shadow;  he  whispered  sweet  words  in  her  ear;  he 
turned  her  head  giddy  with  his  own  vanity;  and  he 
offered  her  marriage.  She  accepted  him,  and  prepara- 
tions for  the  ceremony  immediately  began.  Sir 
Francis  urged  speed,  and  Alice  was  nothing  loth. 

And  what  of  Blanche?  Blanche  was  stunned.  A 
despairing  stupor  took  possession  of  her;  and  when 
she  awoke  from  it  desperation  set  in.  She  insisted 
upon  an  interview  with  Sir  Francis;  and  evade  it  he 
could  not,  though  he  tried  hard. 

Will  it  be  believed  that  he  denied  the  past — that  he 
met  with  mocking  suavity  her  indignant  reminders  of 


302  EAST  LYNNE 

what  had  been  between  them?  "Love?  Marriage? 
Nonsense!  Her  fancy  had  been  too  much  at  work." 
Finally  he  defied  her  to  prove  that  he  had  regarded 
her  with  more  than  ordinary  friendship,  or  had  ever 
hinted  at  such  a  thing  as  a  union. 

She  determined  to  appeal  to  Alice,  but  her  only 
answer  was:  "I  know!  He  told  me  I  might  expect 
something  of  this;  that  you  had  fancied  him  in  love 
with  you,  and  were  angry  because  he  had  chosen  me." 

Blanche  turned  upon  her  with  streaming  eyes;  she 
could  no  longer  control  her  emotion,  "Alice,  my  sis- 
ter, all  the  pride  is  gone  out  of  me ,  all  the  reticence 
that  woman  loves  to  observe  as  to  her  wrongs  and  to 
her  inward  feelings,  I  have  broken  through  for  you 
this  night.  As  sure  as  that  there  is  a  heaven  above  us, 
I  have  told  you  but  the  truth.  Until  you  came  I  was 
engaged  to  Francis  Levison. " 

An  unnatural  scene  ensued.  Blanche,  provoked  at 
Alice's  rejection  of  her  words,  told  all  the  ill  she  knew 
or  had  heard  of  the  man ;  she  dwelt  upon  his  conduct 
with  regard  to  Lady  Isabel  Carlyle,  his  heartless  after- 
treatment  of  that  unhappy  lady.  Alice  was  passionate 
and  fiery.  She  professed  not  to  believe  a  word  of  her 
sister's  wrongs,  and,  as  to  the  other  stories,  they  were 
no  affairs  of  her,  she  said;  what  had  she  to  do  with 
his  past  life? 

But  Alice  Challoner  did  believe ;  her  sister's  earnest- 
ness and  distress,  as  she  told  the  tale,  carried  convic- 
tion with  them.  She  did  not  care  very  much  for  Sir 
Francis;  he  was  not  entwined  round  her  heart  as  he 
was  round  that  of  Blanche ;  but  she  was  dazzled  with 
the  prospect  of  so  good  a  settlement  in  life,  and  she 
would  not  give  him  up.  If  Blanche  broke  her  heart — 
why,  she  must  break  it.  But  she  need  not  have 
mixed  taunts  and  jeers  with  her  refusal  to  believe;  she 
need  not  have  triumphed  openly  over  Blanche.  Was 
it  well  done?  As  we  sow,  so  I  tell  you,  we  shall  reap. 
She  married  Sir  Francis  Levison,  leaving  Blanche  to 
her  broken  heart,  or  to  any  other  calamity  that  might 
grow  out  of  the  injustice.     And  there  sat  Lady  Levi- 


EAST  LYNNE  303 

6on  now,  her  three  years  of  marriage  having-  served  to 
turn  her  love  for  Sir  Francis  into  contempt  and  hate. 

A  little  boy,  two  years  old,  the  only  child  of  the 
marriage,  was  playing  about  the  room.  His  mother 
took  no  notice  of  him;  she  was  buried  in  all-absorbing 
thought;  thought  that  caused  her  lips  to  contract  and 
her  brow  to  scowl.  Sir  Francis  entered,  his  attitude 
lounging,  his  air  listless.  Lady  Levison  roused  her- 
self, but  no  pleasant  manner  or  tone  was  hers,  as  she 
addressed  himx,      "I  want  some  money,"  she  said. 

*'So  do  I,"  he  answered. 

An  impatient  stamp  of  the  foot,  and  a  haughty  toss. 
*'And  I  must  have  it.  I  must.  I  told  you  yesterday 
that  I  must.  Do  you  suppose  1  can  go  on,  without  a 
sixpence  of  ready  money,  day  after  day?" 

"Do  you  suppose  it  is  of  any  use  to  put  yourself  in 
this  fury?"  retorted  Sir  Francis.  "A  dozen  times  a 
week  do  you  bother  me  for  money,  and  a  dozen  times 
do  1  tell  you  I  have  got  none.  I  have  got  none  for 
myself.  You  might  as  well  ask  that  baby  for  money 
as  ask  me. ' ' 

''I  wish  he  had  never  been  born!"  passionately  said 
Lady  Levison.    ' '  Unless  he  had  had  a  different  father. ' ' 

That  the  last  sentence,  and  the  bitter  scorn  of  its 
tone,  would  have  provoked  a  reprisal  from  Sir  Francis, 
his  flashing  countenance  betrayed.  But  at  that 
moment  a  servant  entered  the  room. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  That  man,  Brov/n,  forced 
his  way  into  the  hall,  and " 

"I  can't  see  him,  I  won't  see  him!"  interrupted  Sir 
Francis,  backing  to  the  furthest  corner  of  the  room,  in 
what  looked  very  like  abject  terror,  as  if  he  had  com- 
pletely lost  his  presence  of  mind.  Lady  Levison's  lips 
curled. 

'We  got  rid  of  him,  sir,  after  a  dreadful  deal  of 
trouble,  but  while  the  door  was  open  in  the  dispute, 
Mr.  Meredith  entered.  He  has  gone  on  into  the 
library,  sir,  and  he  vows  he  won't  stir  till  he  sees  you, 
whether  you  are  sick  or  well." 

A  mom.ent's  pause,  a  half-muttered  oath,  and  then 


304  EAST  LYNNE 

Sir  Francis  quitted  the  room.  The  servant  retired, 
and  Lady  Levison  caught  up  her  child.  "Oh,^ranky, 
dear,"  she  wailed  forth,  burying  her  face  in  his  warm 
neck,  "I  would  leave  him  for  good  and  all,  if  I  dared; 
but  I  fear  he  might  keep  you." 

Now,  the  secret  was,  that  for  the  last  three  days,  Sir 
Francis  Levison  had  been  desperately  ill,  obliged  to 
keep  his  bed,  and  could  see  nobody — his  life  depending 
upon  quiet.  Such  was  the  report,  or  something  equiv- 
alent to  it,  which  had  gone  in  to  Lord  Headthelot 
(or,  rather,  to  the  official  office,  for  that  renowned 
chief  v/as,  himself,  out  of  town) ;  it  had  also  been 
delivered  to  all  callers  at  Sir  Francis  Levison's  house. 
The  real  truth  being  that  Sir  Francis  was  as  well  in 
health  as  you  or  I,  but  from  something  which  had 
transpired,  touching  one  of  his  numerous  debts,  did 
not  dare  to  show.  That  morning  the  matter  had  been 
arranged ;  patched  up  for  a  time. 

"My  stars,  Levison!"  began  Mr.  Meredith,  who  was 
a  whipper-in  of  the  ministry,  "what  a  row  there  is 
about  you!  Why,  you  look  as  well  as  ever  you 
were." 

"A  great  deal  better  to-day,"  coughed  Sir  Francis. 

"To  think  that  you  should  have  chosen  the  present 
moment  for  skulking!  Here  have  I  been,  dancing  in 
attendance  at  your  door  day  after  day,  in  a  state  of 
incipient  fever,  enough  to  put  me  into  a  real  one,  and 
could  neither  get  admitted  nor  a  letter  taken  up.  I 
should  have  blown  the  houses  up  to-day  and  got  in 
amidst  the  flying  debris.  By  the  way,  are  you  and  my 
lady  two,  just  now?" 

"Two?"  growled  Sir  Francis. 

"She  was  stepping  into  her  carriage  yesterday  when 
they  turned  me  from  the  door,  and  I  made  inquiry  of 
her.  Her  ladyship's  answer  was  that  she  knew  noth- 
ing either  of  Sir  Francis  or  his  illness." 

"Her  ladyship  is  subject  to  flights  of  temper," 
chafed  Sir  Francis.  "What  desperate  need  have  you 
of  me,  just  now?  Headthelot's  away,  and  there's 
nothing  doing." 


EAST  LYNNE  305 

"Nothing  doing  tip  here;  a  deal  too  much  doing 
somewhere  else.     Attley's  seat  is  in  the  market." 

"Well?" 

"And  you  ought  to  have  been  down  there  about  it 
three  or  four  days  ago.  Of  course  you  must  step  into 
it." 

"Of  course  I  shan't,"  returned  Sir  Francis.  "To 
represent  West  Lynne  would  not  suit  me." 

"Not  suit  you?  West  Lynne!  Why,  of  all  places,  it 
is  the  most  suitable.   It's  close  to  your  own  property." 

"If  you  call  ten  miles  close.  I  shall  not  put  up  for 
West  Lynne,  Meredith." 

"Headthelot  came  up  this  morning,"  said  Mr.  Mer- 
edith. 

The  information  somewhat  aroused  Sir  Francis. 
"Headthelot!     What  brings  him  back?" 

"You.  I  tell  you,  Levison,  there's  a  hot  row.  Head- 
thelot expected  you  would  be  at  West  Lynne  days  past, 
and  he  has  come  up  in  an  awful  rage.  Every  addi- 
tional vote  we  can  count  in  the  House  is  worth  its 
weight  in  gold;  and  you,  as  he  says,  are  allowing  West 
Lynne  to  slip  through  our  fingers!  You  must  start  for 
it  at  once." 

"No." 

"Then  you  lose  your  post.  Thornton  goes  in  for 
West  Ljmne,  and  takes  your  place  with   Headthelot." 

"Did  Headthelot  send  you  here  to  say  this?"  asked 
Sir  Francis. 

"He  did.  And  he  means  it,  mind;  that's  more.  I 
never  saw  a  man  more  thoroughly  in  earnest." 

Sir  Francis  mused.  Had  the  alternative  been  given 
him,  he  would  have  preferred  to  represent  a  certain 
warm  place  underground,  rather  than  West  Lynne. 
But,  to  quit  Headthelot,  and  the  snug  post  he  antic- 
ipated, would  be  ruin  irretrievable;  nothing  short  of 
outlawry,  or  the  queen's  prison.  It  was  awfully  nec- 
essary to  get  his  threatened  person  into  parliament, 
and  he  began  to  turn  over  in  his  mind  whether  he  could 
bring  himself  to  make  further  acquaintance  with  West 
Lynne.     "The  thing  must  have  blown  over  for  good 

20  Lynne 


306  EAST  LYNNE 

by  this  time,"  was  the  result  of  his  cogitations,  uncon- 
sciously speaking  aloud. 

"I  can  understand  your  reluctance  to  appear  at  West 
Lynne,"  cried  Mr.  Meredith;  "the  scene,  unless  I 
mistake,  of  that  notorious  affair  of  yours.  But  private 
feelings  must  give  way  to  public  interests;  and  the  best 
thing  you  can  do  is  to  start.  Headthelot  is  angry 
enough,  as  it  is.  He  says,  had  you  been  down  at  first, 
as  you  ought  to  have  been,  you  would  have  slipped  in 
without  opposition;  but  now  there  will  be  a  contest." 

Sir  Francis  looked  up  sharply.  "A  contest?  Who 
is  going  to  stand  the  funds?" 

"Pshaw!  As  if  we  should  let  funds  be  any  barrier! 
Have  you  heard  who  is  in  the  field?" 

"No,"  was  the  apathetic  answer. 

"Carlyle." 

"Carlyle!"  shouted  Sir  Francis.  "Oh,  by  George! 
I  can't  stand  against  him." 

"Well,  there's  the  alternative.  If  you  can't,  Thorn- 
ton will." 

"I  should  run  no  chance.  West  Lynne  wotild  not 
elect  me  if  he  is  a  candidate.  I'm  not  sure,  indeed, 
West  Lynne  would  have  me  in  any  case." 

"Nonsense!  you  know  our  interests  there.  Govern- 
ment put  in  Attley,  and  it  can  put  in  you.  Yes,  or 
no,  Levison?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Sir  Francis. 

An  hour's  time,  and  Sir  Francis  Levison  went  forth. 
On  his  way  to  be  conveyed  to  West  Lynne?  Not  yet. 
He  turned  his  steps  to  Scotland  Yard.  In  consider- 
ably less  than  another  hour,  the  following  telegram, 
marked  "secret,"  went  down  from  the  head  office  to 
the  superintendent  of  police  at  West  Lynne: 

"Is  Otway  Bethel  at  West  Lynne?  If  not,  where  is 
he?  and  when  will  he  be  returning  to  it?" 

It  elicited  a  prompt  answer.  "Otway  Bethel  is  not 
at  West  Lynne.  Supposed  to  be  in  Norway.  Move- 
ments uncertain." 

Lady  Levison  heard  of  the  scheme  that  was  in  the 
wind.     When  Sir  Francis  went  to  tell  her  (as  a  matter 


^AST  LYNNE  307 

of  the  merest  courtesy)  that  he  was  about  to  go  into 
the  country  for  a  few  days,  she  turned  upon  him 
fiercely. 

"If  you  have  any  sense  of  shame  in  you,  you  would 
shoot  yourself  rather  than  go  where  you  are  going,  to 
do  what  you  are  about  to  do." 

That  ill  feeling  had  come  to  an  extreme  pitch 
between  her  and  her  husband,  and  that  he  had  not 
been  long  in  giving  her  ample  cause  of  resentment, 
you  may  be  sure;  otherwise  she  could  not  so  have 
spoken.  He  bent  his  dark  looks  upon  her.  "I  know 
the  errand  you  are  bent  upon.  You  are  going  forth  to 
enter  yourself  in  opposition  to  Mr.  Carlyle.  You  must 
possess  a  front  of  brass,  a  recollection  seared  to 
shame,  or  you  could  not  do  it.  Any  one  but  you 
would  sink  into  the  earth  with  humiliation  at  sight  of 
a  man  so  injured." 

"Hold  your  tongue!"  said  Sir  Francis. 

"I  held  it  for  months  and  months;  held  it  because 
you  were  my  husband — though  I  was  nearly  mad.  I 
shall  never  hold  it  again.  Night  and  morning  one 
prayer  goes  up  from  me — that  I  may  find  a  way  of 
being  legally  separated  from  you.      I  will  find  it. ' ' 

"You  had  better  have  left  me  to  Blanche,"  sneered 
Sir  Francis.  "The  taking  of  me  v/as  a  dead  robbery 
on  her,  you  know.     You  knew  it  then." 

She  sat  beating  her  foot  on  the  carpet,  really  striv- 
ing to  calm  down  her  irritability.  "Allow  me  to 
recommend  you  to  pause  and  consider,  ere  you  enter 
this  insult  to  Mr.  Carlyle,"  she  resumed. 

"What  is  Carlyle  to  you?     You  don't  know  him." 

"I  know  him  by  reputation ;  know  him  to  be  a  noble, 
honorable  man,  beloved  by  his  friends,  respected  by  all. 
If  ever  two  men  presented  a  contrast,  it  is  you  and  he. 
Ask  your  uncle's  widow  what  the  world  thinks  of  Mr. 
Carlyle." 

"Had  another  been  my  adversary,  I  should  not 
have  cared  to  stand  the  contest,"  maliciously  returned 
Sir  Francis.  "The  thought  that  it  is  he  who  is  my 
opponent  spurs  me  on.     I'll  oppose  and  crush   him." 


308  EAST  LYNNE 

"Take  care  that  you  do  not  get  crushed  yourself," 
retorted  Alice  Levison.  "Luck  does  not  always  attend 
the  bad," 

"I'll  take  my  chance,"  sneered  Sir  Francis. 


CHAPTER  XLV 


ANOTHER   CANDIDATE 


Mr.  Carlyle  and  Barbara  were  seated  at  breakfast, 
when,  somewhat  to  their  surprise,  Mr.  Dill  was  shown 
in.  Following  close  upon  his  heels  came  Justice  Hare; 
close  upon  his  heels  came  Squire  Pinner;  while  bring- 
ing up  the  rear  was  Colonel  Bethel.  All  the  four  had 
come  up  separately,  not  together,  and  all  four  were 
out  of  breath,  as  if  it  had  been  a  race  which  should 
arrive  soonest. 

Quite  impossible  was  it  for  Mr.  Carlyle,  at  first,  to 
understand  the  news  they  brought.  All  were  talking 
at  once,  in  the  utmost  excitement,  and  the  fury  of 
Justice  Hare  alone  was  sufficient  to  produce  temporary 
deafness.  Mr.  Carlyle  caught  a  word  of  the  case 
presently. 

"A  second  man!  Opposition?  Well,  let  him  come 
on,"  he  good-humoredly  cried.  "We  shall  have  the 
satisfaction  of  ascertaining  who  wins  in  the  end." 

"But  you  have  not  heard  who  it  is,  Mr.  Archibald," 
cried  old  Dill.      "It " 

"Stand  a  contest  with  him,"  raved  Justice  Hare. 
"He " 

"The  fellow  wants  hanging,"  interjected  Colonel 
Bethel. 

"Couldn't  he  be  ducked?"  suggested  Squire  Pinner. 

Now  all  these  sentences  were  ranted  out  together, 
and  their  respective  utterers  were  fain  to  stop  till  the 
noises  subsided  a  little,  Barbara  could  only  look  from 
one  to  the  other  in  astonishment. 

"Who  is  the  formidable  opponent?"  asked  Carlyle. 

There  was  a  pause.  Not  one  of  them  but  had  the 
delicacy  to  shrink  from  naming  the  man  to  Carlyle, 


EAST  LYNNE  309 

The  information  came  at  last  from  old  Dill,  who 
dropped  his  voice  while  he  spoke  it: 

"Mr.  Archibald,  the  candidate  who  has  come  for- 
ward is  that  man,  Levison. " 

A  scarlet  flush  dyed  the  brow  of  Mr.  Carlyle.  Barbara 
bent  down  her  face,  but  her  eyes  flashed  with  anger. 

"Benjamin  went  through  the  town  early  this  morn- 
ing, exercising  his  horses,"  stuttered  Justice  Hare. 
"He  came  back,  telling  me  that  the  walls  were  pla- 
carded with  'Levison  forever!'  'Vote  for  Sir  Francis 
Levison!'  I  nearly  knocked  him  down.  'It's  true, 
master,'  says  he,  'as  I'm  a  living  sinner.  And  some 
folks  I  spoke  to  told  me  that  he  came  down  last  eve- 
ning. '  There  was  news  for  a  respectable  man  to  hear 
before  breakfast." 

"He  got  here  by  the  last  train,"  said  Mr.  Dill,  "and 
has  put  up  at  the  Buck's  Head.  The  printers  must 
have  sat  up  all  night  to  get  the  placards  ready.  He 
has  got  an  agent,  or  something  of  that  sort,  with  him, 
and  some  other  chap,  said  to  be  a  member  of  the  gov- 
ernment. " 

"Boasting  that  the  field  is  theirs  at  the  onset,  and 
that  the  canvass  will  be  a  mere  matter  of  form!"  added 
Colonel  Bethel,  bringing  down  his  cane  vehemently. 
"He  is  mad  to  offer  himself  as  a  candidate  here." 

"It's  done  purposely  to  insult  Mr.  Carlyle,"  said  the 
meek  voice  of  Squire  Pinner. 

"To  insult  us  all,  you  mean,  squire,"  retorted  Colo- 
nel Bethel.  "I  don't  think  he  will  go  off  quite  so 
glibly  as  he  has  come." 

"Of  course,  Carlyle,  you  will  go  into  it  now,  neck 
and  crop,"  cried  Justice  Hare. 

Mr.  Carlyle  was  silent. 

"You  won't  let  the  beast  frighten  you  from  the  con- 
test!" uttered  Colonel  Bethel,  in  a  loud  tone. 

"There's  a  meeting  at  the  Buck's  Head  at  ten," 
said  Mr.  Carlyle,  not  replying  to  the  immediate  ques- 
tion.    "I  will  be  with  you  there." 

"Did  you  say  he  is  at  the  Buck's  Head?"  asked 
Squire  Pinner.     "I  had  not  heard  that." 


310  EAST  LYNNE 

*'That  he  was,"  corrected  Mr.  Dill  "I  expect  he 
is  ousted  by  this  time.  I  asked  the  landlord  what  he 
thought  of  himself  for  taking  in  such  a  character,  and 
what  he  supposed  the  justices  would  say  to  him.  He 
vowed  with  tears  in  his  eyes  that  the  fellow  should 
not  be  there  another  hour,  and  that  he  never  should 
have  entered  the  house  had  he  known  who  he  was. " 

A  little  more  conversation  and  the  visitors  filed  off. 
Mr.  Carlyle  sat  down  calmly  to  finish  his  breakfast. 
Barbara  approached  him.  "Archibald,  you  will  not 
suffer  this  man's  insolent  doing  to  deter  you  from  your 
plans;  you  will  not  withdraw?"  she  whispered.  "i 
think  not,  Barbara.  He  has  thrust  himself  offensively 
upon  me  in  this  measure;  I  believe  my  better  plan  will 
be  to  take  no  more  heed  of  him  than  I  should  of  the 
dirt  under  my  feet." 

"Right,  right,"  she  answered,  a  proud  flash  deepen- 
ing the  rose  on  her  cheeks, 
p  And  now  the  contest  began  in  earnest — that  is,  the 
canvass.  Sir  Francis  Levison,  his  agent,  and  the 
'  friend  from  town,  who,  as  it  turned  out,  instead  of 
being  some  great  gun  of  the  government,  was  a  pri- 
vate chum  of  the  baronet's,  by  name  Drake,  sneaked 
about  the  town  like  dogs  with  their  tails  burnt,  for 
they  were  entirely  alive  to  the  odor  in  which  they  were 
held;  their  only  attendants  being  a  few  young  gentle- 
men and  ladies  in  rags,  who  commonly  brought  up  the 
rear.  The  other  party  presented  a  stately  crowd — 
country  gentry,  magistrates.  Lord  Mount  Severn. 
Sometimes  Mr.  Carlyle  would  be  with  them,  arm-in- 
arm with  the  latter.  If  the  contesting  groups  came 
within  view  of  each  other,  and  were  likely  to  meet,  the 
brave  Sir  Francis  would  disappear  down  an  entry: 
behind  a  hedge;  anywhere.  With  all  his  "face  of 
brass,"  he  could  not  meet  Mr.  Carlyle  and  that  con- 
l_demning  jury  around  him. 

One  afternoon  it  pleased  Mrs.  Carlyle  to  summon 
Lucy  and  the  governess  to  accompany  her  into  West 
Lynne.  She  was  going  shopping.  Lady  Isabel  had  a 
dread  and  horror  of  appearing  there   whilst  that  man 


EAST  LYNNE  311 

was  in  the  tov/n,  but  she  could  not  help  herself.  There 
was  no  pleading  illness,  for  she  was  quite  well;  there 
must  be  no  saying  "I  will  not  go,"  for  she  was  only  a 
dependent.  They  set  off,  and  had  walked  as  far  as 
Mrs.  Hare's  gate,  when  Miss  Carlyle  turned  out  of  it. 

'*Your  mamma  is  not  well,  Barbara." 

"Is  she  not?"  cried  Barbara,  with  a  quick  concern. 
"I  must  go  in  and  see  her." 

"She  has  had  one  of  those  ridiculous  dreams  again," 
pursued  Miss  Carlyle,  ignoring  the  presence  of  the 
governess  and  Lucy.  "I  was  sure  of  it  by  her  very 
look  when  I  got  in;  shivering  and  shaking  and  glanc- 
ing fearfully  around,  as  if  she  feared  a  dozen  specters 
were  about  to  burst  out  of  the  walls.  So  I  taxed  her 
with  it,  and  she  could  make  no  denial.  Richard  is  in 
some  jeopardy,  she  protests,  or  will  be.  And  there 
she  is,  shaking  still,  although  I  told  her  that  people 
who  put  faith  in  dreams  were  only  fit  for  a  lunatic 
asylum." 

Barbara  looked  distressed.  She  did  not  believe  in 
dreams,  any  more  than  Miss  Carlyle;  but  she  could 
not  forget  how  strangely  peril  to  Richard  had  super- 
vened upon  some  of  these  dreams.  "I  will  go  in  now 
and  see  mamma,"  she  said.  "If  you  are  returning 
home,  Cornelia,  Madame  Vine  can  walk  with  you,  and 
wait  for  me  there.  " 

"Let  me  go  in  with  you,  mamma,"  pleaded  Lucy. 

Barbara  mechanically  took  the  child's  hand.  The 
gate  closed  on  them,  and  Miss  Carlyle  and  Lady  Isabel 
proceeded  in  the  direction  of  the  town.  But  not  far 
had  they  gone  when,  in  turning  a  corner,  the  wind, 
which  was  high,  flew  away  with  the  veil  of  Lady  Isa- 
bel ;  and,  in  raising  her  hands  in  trepidation  to  save  it 
before  it  was  finally  gone,  she  contrived  to  knock  off 
her  blue  spectacles.  They  fell  to  the  ground  and  were 
broken. 

"However  did  you  manage  that?"  uttered  Miss 
Carlyle. 

How,  indeed?  She  bent  her  face  on  the  ground, 
looking  at  the  damage.      What  should  she  do?      The 


312  EAST  LYNNE 

veil  was  over  the  hedge,  the  spectacles  were  broken; 
how  could  she  dare  to  show  her  unshaded  face?  That 
face  as  rosy,  just  then,  as  in  former  days  the  eyes  were 
bright,  and  Miss  Carlyle  caught  their  expression,  and 
stared  in  very  amazement. 

"Good  Heaven  above!"    she   muttered,   "what  an 
extraordinary  likeness!" 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

HER  boy's   life   AT   STAKE 

That  evening  after  dinner  Miss  Carlyle  and  Lady 
Mount  Severn  sat  side  by  side  on  the  same  sofa, 
coffee  cups  in  hand.  Sir  John  Dobede  and  one  or  two 
more  gentlemen  were  of  the  party.  Young  Vane, 
Lucy  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  were  laughing  together,  and 
there  was  considerable  noise  and  talking  in  the  room. 
Under  cover  of  it.  Miss  Carlyle   turned    to   the  earl. 

"Was  it  a  positively  ascertained  fact  that  Lady  Isa- 
bel died?" 

The  earl  stared  with  all  his  might ;  he  thought  it  the 
strangest  question  that  was  ever  asked  him.  "1  scarcely 
understand  you,  Miss  Carlyle.  Died  Certainly  she 
died." 

"When  the  result  of  the  accident  was  communicated 
to  you,  you  made  inquiry,  yourself,  into  its  truth,  its 
details,  I  believe?" 

"It  was  my  duty  to  do  so.  There  was  no  one  else 
to  undertake  it. " 

"Did  you  ascertain  positively,  beyond  all  doubt,  that 
she  did  die?" 

"Of  a  surety  I  did.  She  died  in  the  course  of  the 
same  night.     She  Vv^as  terribly  injured." 

A  pause.  Miss  Carlyle  was  ruminating.  But  she 
returned  to  the  charge,  as  if  difficult  to  be  convinced. 

"You  deem  that  there  could  be  no  possibility  of  an 
error?     You  are  sure  that  she  is  dead?" 

"I  am  as  sure  that  she  is  dead  as  that  we  are  liv- 
ing,"   decisively   replied    the    earl;    and    spoke    but 


EAST  LYNNE  313 

according  to  his  belief.  "Wherefore  should  yoti  be 
inquiring-  this?" 

"A  thought  came  over  me — only  to-day — to  wondei' 
whether  she  was  really  dead." 

"Had  any  error  occurred  at  the  time,  any  false 
report  of  her  death,  I  should  soon  have  found  it  out  by 
her  drawing  the  annuity  I  settled  upon  her.  It  has 
never  been  drawn  since.  Besides,  she  would  have 
written  to  me,  as  was  agreed  upon.  No,  poor  thing -^ 
she  is  gone,  beyond  all  doubt,  and  has  taken  her  sins 
with  her." 

Convincing  proofs.  And  Miss  Carlyle  lent  her  ear 
to  them. 

The  following  morning  Lord  Vane,  Lucy  and  Wil- 
liam were  running  races  on  the  lawn,  the  viscount 
having  joined  Madame  Vine's  breakfast-table  without 
the  ceremony  of  asking.  William's  racing,  indeed, 
was  more  pretense  than  work ;  he  and  his  breath  were 
soon  tired;  and  Lord  Vane  gave  Lucy  "half"  and  beat 
her  then,  the  forfeit,  if  she  lost,  being  five  kisses. 
Lucy  told  him  one  was  enough,  but  he  battled  it  out 
and  got  five.  Lady  Isabel  had  made  prisoner  of 
Archibald,  and  was  holding  him  on  her  knee  in  the 
gray  parlor,  clasped  to  her  in  the  impassioned  manner 
that  few,  save  a  mother,  can  clasp  a  child,  when  Mr. 
Carlyle  entered. 

"Do  you  admit  intruders  here,  Madame  Vine?"  cried 
he,  with  a  sweet  smile  and  his  attractive  manner. 
She  let  the  boy  slip  to  the  ground  and  rose,  her  face 
burning,  her  heart  throbbing.  Archie  ran  off  to  his 
elders  on  the  grass.  "Keep  your  seat,  pray,"  said 
Mr.  Carlyle,  taking  one  opposite  to  her,  and  admiring, 
no  doubt,  her  tortoise-shell  spectacles.  "How  does 
William  seem?  for  that  is  what  I  have  come  to  ask  you." 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  bosom,  striving  to  make 
it  still;  she  essayed  to  control  her  voice  to  calmness. 
Alone  with  him!  "There  was  no  difference,"  she 
murmured;  and  then  she  took  courage,  and  spoke 
more  openly.  "I  understood  you  to  say  the  other 
night,  sir,  that  he  should  have  further  advice." 


314  EAST  LYNNE 

"Ay.  1  intended  to  take  him  over  to  Lynneborough, 
to  Dr.  Martin,  and  the  drive  would  have  done  him 
good;  but  I  have  been  so  much  engaged,  there  has 
been  no  time  to  think  of  it.  Neither  do  I  know  when 
I  shall  be  at  liberty." 

"Let  me  take  him,  sir,"  she  cried,  yearningly. 
"Indeed,  I  think  no  time  should  be  lost.  We  could 
go  by  train.  What  objection  have  you?"  she  quickly 
added.     "Surely  you  can  trust  him  with  me!" 

Mr.  Carlyle  smiled.  "I  can  trust  him  and  you  too," 
cried  he,  "and  I  think  the  plan  would  be  a  good  one, 
if  you  do  not  mind  the  trouble." 

Mind  the  trouble!  when  her  boy's  life  was  at  stake. 
"Let  us  go  to-day,  sir,"  she  said,  with  feverish 
impatience. 

"I  will  ascertain  whether  Mrs.  Carlyle  wants  the 
pony  carriage,"  said  he.  "It  will  be  better  to  go  in 
that  than  boxed  up  in  the  raiUvay  train." 

Her  heart  rose  rebelliously  as  he  quitted  the  room. 
Were  Mrs.  Carlyle's  capricious  "v/ants"  to  be  studied 
before  her  child's  life?  A  moment's  battle,  and  she 
clasped  her  hands  meekly  on  her  knee.  Was  that  the 
spirit  in  which  she  had  promised  to  take  up  her  daily 
cross?  She  had  put  the  same  question  to  herself  many 
times  lately. 

Mr.  Carlyle  returned.  "The  pony  carriage  will  be 
at  your  service,  Madame  Vine.  John  will  drive  you 
to  the  Royal,  the  hotel  I  use  in  Lynneborough,  and 
Dr.  Martin  lives  within  a  few  doors  of  it.  Order  any 
refreshments  you  please  at  the  hotel — it  will  be  put 
down  to  my  account.  Perhaps  you  had  better  dine 
there;  it  may  not  be  well  for  William  to  wait." 

"Very  well,  sir.  Thank  you.  What  time  can  v;e 
start?" 

"Any  time  you  like.     Ten  o'clock.     Will  that  suit?" 

"Oh,  quite  well,  sir.     Thank  you,  very  much." 

"Thank  me  for  what?"  laughed  Mr.  Carlyle;  "for 
giving  you  a  troublesome  journey?  Let  me  see — the 
doctor's  fee  will  be  a  guinea,"  he  said,  taking  out  his 
purse. 


I 


EAST  LYNNE  315 

"Oh,  that  is  nothing, "  she  hastily  interrupted.  "I 
will  pay  for  him  myself;  I  would  rather." 

Mr.  Carlyle  looked  surprised.  He  said  nothing; 
simply  laid  down  the  sovereign  and  shilling  on  the 
table.  Madame  Vine  blushed  vividly.  How  could 
she,  the  governess,  so  have  forgotten  herself? 

Poor,  unhappy  Lady  Isabel!  A  recollection  flashed 
over  her  of  that  morning,  years  ago,  when  Lord  Mount 
Severn  had  handed  out  to  her  some  gold — three  sov- 
ereigns— and  of  the  hundred-pound  note  so  generously 
left  in  her  hands  afterward  by  another.  Then  she 
was  his  chosen  love — ay,  she  was;  though  it  had  not 
been  declared. 

Now?  A  pang  as  of  death  shot  through  her  bitter 
heart. 

"You  can  remind  Dr.  Martin  that  the  child's  con- 
stitution is  precisely  what  his  mother's  was, ' '  continued 
Mr.  Carlyle,  a  tinge  lighting  his  face.  "It  may  be  a 
guide  to  his  treatment.  He  said  himself  it  was,  when 
he  attended  him  for  an  illness  a  year  or  two  ago." 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  crossed  the  hall  on  his  entrance  to  the  breakfast- 
room.  She  tore  upstairs  to  her  chamber,  and  sank 
down  in  an  agony  of  tears  and  despair.  Oh,  to  love 
him  as  she  did  now!  to  yearn  after  his  affection  with 
this  passionate,  jealous  longing,  and  to  know  that  they  / 
were  separated  forever  and  forever — that  she  was  J 
worse  to  him  than  nothing! 

Soft4yv^in^J^tdyJ__Xlusjs  not_bearin^  cross. 


316  EAST  LYNNE 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

A  RUSSIAN   BEAR  AT  WEST   LYNNE 

Among  the  crowd  listening  to  one  of  Sir  Francis 
Levison's  outdoor  campaign  speeches  were  Mr.  Dili 
and  Mr.  Ebenezer  James.  The  latter  was  one  who, 
for  the  last  twelve  or  fifteen  years,  had  been  trying  his 
hand  at  many  trades,  and  had  not  come  out  particu- 
larly well  at  any.  A  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss. 
First  he  had  been  clerk  to  Mr.  Carlyle;  next  he  had 
been  seduced  into  joining  the  corps  of  the  Theatre 
Royal  at  Lynneborough ;  then  he  turned  auctioneer; 
then  traveler  in  the  oil  and  color  line;  then  a  parson, 
the  urgent  pastor  of  some  sect;  then  omnibus  driver; 
then  collector  of  the  water  rate ;  and  now  he  was  clerk 
again;  not  in  Mr.  Carlyle's  office,  but  in  that  of  Bell 
&  Treadman,  other  solicitors  of  West  Lynne. 

"I'll — be — blest,"  uttered  Mr.  Ebenezer  James, 
after  a  prolonged  pause  of  staring  consternation,  "if 
I  don't  believe  there's  Bethel!" 

"Bethel!"  repeated  old  Dill,  gazing  at  an  approach- 
ing figure,  which  resembled  rather  a  Russian  bear 
than  a  man.      "What  has  he  been  doing  to  himself?" 

Mr.  Otway  Bethel  it  was,  just  arrived  from  foreign 
parts  in  his  traveling  costume,  something  shaggy, 
terminating  all  over  with  tails.  A  shaggy  cap  sur- 
mounted his  head,  and  the  hair  on  his  face  would  have 
set  up  Mr.  Justice  Hare  in  wigs  for  his  life.  A  wild 
object  he  looked,  and  j\Ir.  Dill  rather  backed  as  he 
drew  near,  as  if  fearing  he  were  a  real  animal  which 
might  bite  him. 

"What's  your  name?"  cried  he. 

"It  used  to  be  Mr.  Bethel,"  replied  the  wild  man, 
holding  out  his  hand  to  Mr.  Dill.  "So  you  are  in  the 
world,  James,  and  kicking  yet!" 

"And  hope   to  kick  in   it  for  some  time  to  come, " 


EAST  LYNNE  317 

replied  Mr.  James.  "Where  did  you  hail  from  last? 
A  settlement  at  the  North  Pole?" 

"Didn't  get  quite  so  far.     What's  the  row  here?" 

"When  did  you  arrive,  Mr.  Otway?"  inquired  old 
Dill. 

"Now.     Four  o'clock  train.     1  say,  what's  up?" 

"An  election;  that's  all,"  said  Mr.  Ebenezer. 
"Attley  went  and  kicked  the  bucket." 

"I  don't  ask  about  the  election;  I  heard  all  that  at 
the  railway  station,"  returned  Otway  Bethel,  impa- 
tiently. "What's  this?"  waving  his  hand  at  the 
crowd. 

"One  of  the  candidates  wasting  his  breath  and  words 
— Levison. " 

"I  say,"  repeated  Otway  Bethel,  looking  at  Mr. 
Dill,  "wasn't  it  rather — rather  of  the  ratherest,  for 
him  to  oppose  Carlyle?" 

"Infamous!  contemptible!"  was  the  old  gentleman's 
excited  answer.  "But  he'll  get  his  deserts  yet,  Mr. 
Otway;  they  have  already  begun.  He  was  treated  to 
a  ducking  yesterday  in  Justice  Hare's  green  pond." 

"And  he  did  look  a  miserable  devil  when  he  came 
out  trailing  through  the  streets, "  added  Mr.  Ebenezer, 
while  Otway  Bethel  burst  into  a  laugh.  "He  was 
smothered  into  some  hot  blankets  at  the  Raven  and  a 
pint  of  burnt  brandy  put  into  him.  He  seems  all  right 
to-day." 

"Will  he  go  in  and  win?" 

' ' Chut !  Win  against  Carlyle !  He  has  not  the  ghost 
of  a  chance ;  and  government — if  it  is  the  government 
who  put  him  on  it — must  be  a  pack  of  fools;  they  can't 
know  the  influence  of  Carlyle.  Bethel,  is  that  style 
of  costume  the  fashion  where  you  come  from?" 

"For  cold  weather  and  slender  pockets.  I'll  sell 
'em  to  you  now,  James,  at  half  price.  Let's  get  a 
look  at  this  Levison,  though  I  have  never  seen  the 
fellow." 

Another  interruption  to  the  crowd,  even  as  he  spoke, 
caused  by  the  railway  van  bringing  up  some  luggage. 
They  contrived,  in  the  confusion,  to  push  themselves 


318  EAST  LYNNE 

to  the  front,  not  far  from  Sir  Francis.     Otway  Bethel 
stared  at  him  in  unqualified  amazement. 

"Why — what  brings  him  here?      What  is  he  doing?" 

"Who?" 

He  pointed  with  his  finger.  "The  one  with  the 
white  handkerchief  in  his  hand." 

"That  is  Sir  Francis." 

"No!"  uttered  Bethel,  a  whole  world  of  astounded 
meaning  in  his  tone.  "By  Jove!  He  Sir  Francis 
Levison?" 

At  that  moment  their  eyes  met — Francis  Levison's 
and  Otway  Bethel's.  Otway  Bethel  raised  his  shaggy 
cap  in  salutation,  and  Sir  Francis  appeared  completely 
scared.  Only  for  an  instant  did  he  lose  his  presence 
of  mind.  The  next  his  eye-glass  was  stuck  in  his  eye 
and  turned  on  Mr.  Bethel  with  a  hard,  haughty  stare, 
as  much  as  to  say,  Who  are  you,  fellow,  that  you 
should  take  such  a  liberty?  But  his  cheeks  and  lips 
were  growing  as  white  as  marble. 

"Do  you  know  Levison,  Mr.  Otway?"  inquired  old 
Dill. 

"A  little.     Once." 

"When  he  was  not  Levison,  but  somebody  else," 
laughed  Mr.  Ebenezer  James.     "Eh,  Bethel?" 

Bethel  turned  as  reproving  a  stare  on  Mr.  Ebenezer 
as  the  baronet  had  just  turned  on  him.  "What  do 
you  mean,  pray?     Mind  your  own  business." 

A  nod  to  old  Dill,  and  he  turned  off  and  disappeared, 
taking  no  further  notice  of  James.     The  old  gentle- 
man questioned  the  latter.      "What  was  that  little  bit 
of  by-play,  Mr.  Ebenezer?" 
A^    "Nothing  much,"  laughed  Mr.  Ebenezer.       "Only 
1  he,"  nodding  toward  Sir  Francis,  "was  not  always  the 
\great  man  that  he  now  is. ' ' 
^  "Ah!" 

"I  have  held  my  tongue  about  it,  for  it's  no  affaii 

•of  mine,  but  I  don't  mind  letting  you  into  the  secret. 

/Would  you  believe  that  that    grand   baronet    there, 

L.ii'ould-be  member  for  West  Lynne,  used,  years  ago, 


EAST  LYNNE  319 

to  dodge  about  Abbey  Wood,  mad  after  Afy  Hallijohn? 
He  didn't  call  himself  Levison  then." 

Mr.  Dill  felt  as  if  a  hundred  pins  and  needles  were 
pricking  at  his  memory,  for  there  rose  up  in  it  certain 
doubts  and  troubles,  touching  Richard  Hare  and  one 
Thorn.  He  laid  his  eager  hand  upon  the  other's  arm. 
''Ebenezer  James,  what  did  he  call  himself?"  / 

"Thorn.     A  dandy  then,  as  he  is  now.      He  used  to  a/ 
come  galloping  down  the  Swainson  road  at  dusk,    tie 
his  horse  in  the  wood  and  monopolize  Miss  Afy." 

''How  do  you  know  this?" 

"Because  I  have  seen  it  a  dozen  times.  I  was 
spoony  after  Afy  myself  in  those  days,  and  went  down 
there  a  good  deal  in  an  evening.  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  him,  and — perhaps  that  murdering  villain,  Dick 
Hare,  Afy  would  have  listened  to  me.  Not  that  she 
cared  for  Dick ;  but  you  see,  they  were  gentlemen.  I 
am  thankful  to  the  stars,  now,  for  my  luck  in  escap- 
ing her.  With  her  for  a  wife  I  should  have  been  in  a 
pickle  always;  as  it  is,  1  do  get  out  of  it  once  in  a 
way." 

"Did  you  know  then  that  he  was  Francis  Levison?'' 

"Not  I.     He  called  himself  Thorn,  I  tell  you.     When 
he  came  down  to  offer  himself  for  member  and  oppose 
Carlyle,  I  was  thunderstruck,  like  Bethel  was  a  minute   / 
ago.     Ho,  ho,  said  I,  so  Thorn's  defunct  and  LevisonV 
has  arisen." 

"What  had  Otway  Bethel  to  do  with  him?" 

"Nothing — that   I   know  of.      Only  Bethel  was  fond 
of  the  wood  also — after  other  game  than  Afy,  though      / 
— and  must  have  seen  Thorn  often.      You  saw  that  he  '^ 
recognized  him." 

"Thorn — Levison,   I   mean — did  not  appear  to  like  ^J 
the  recognition,"  said  Mr.  Dill. 

"Who  would,  in  his  position?"  laughed  Ebenezer 
James.  "I  don't  like  to  be  reminded  of  many  a  wild  | 
scrape  of  my  past  life,  in  my  poor  station;  and  what 
would  it  be  for  Levison,  were  it  to  come  out  that  he 
once  called  himself  Thorn,  and  came  running  after 
Miss  Afy  Hallijohn?" 


320  EAST  LYNNE 

\.      '"Why  did  he  call  himself  Thorn?     Why  disguise  his 
^  own  name?" 

"Not  knowing,  can't  say.  Is  his  name  Levison — or 
is  it  Thorn?" 

"Nonsense,  Mr.  Ebenezer!" 

Mr.  Dill,  bursting  with  the  strange  news  he  had 
heard,  endeavored  to  force  his  way  through  the  crowd, 
that  he  might  communicate  it  to  Mr.  Carlyle.  The 
crowd  was,  however,  too  dense  for  him,  and  he  had 
to  wait  the  opportunity  of  escape  with  what  patience 
he  might.  When  it  came  he  made  the  best  of  his  way 
to  the  office,  and  entered  Mr.  Carlyle 's  private  room. 
That  gentleman  was  seated  at  his  desk  signing  letters. 

"Why,  Dill,  you  are  out  of  breath!" 

"Well  I  may  be!  Mr.  Archibald,  I  have  been  listen- 
ing to  the  most  extraordinary  statement.  I  have 
found  out  about  Thorn.      Who  do  you  think  he  is?" 

Mr.  Carlyle  laid  down  his  pen  and  looked  full  in  the 
old  man's  face.     He  had  never  seen  him  so  excited. 

"It's  that  man  Levison." 

"1  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle.  He 
did  not.     It  was  Hebrew  to  him. 

"The  Levison  of  to-day,  your  opponent,  is  the 
Thorn  who  went  after  Afy  Hallijohn.  It  is  so,  Mr. 
Archibald." 

"It  cannot  be!"  slowly  uttered  Mr.  Carlyle,  thought 

upon  thought  working  through  his  brain.     "Where  did 

you  hear  this?" 

j^    Mr.   Dill   told  his  tale.     Otway  Bethel's  recognition 

/  of  him;  Sir  Francis  Levison's  scared  paleness — for  he 

Liiad  noticed  that;  Mr.  Ebenezer's  revelation. 

"Bethel  has  denied  to  me  more  than  once  that  he 
knew  Thorn,  or  was  aware  of  such  a  man  being  in 
existence,"  observed  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"He  must  have  had  a  purpose  in  it,"  returned  Mr. 
Dill.  "They  knew  each  other  to-day.  Levison 
recognized  him,  for  certain;  although  he  carried  it  off 
Vv'ith  a  high  hand,  pretending  that  he  did  not." 

"And  it  was  not  as  Levison,  but  as  Thorn,  that 
Bethel  recognized  him'" 


EAST  LYNNE  321 

"There's  little  doubt  about  that.  He  did  not  men- 
tion the  name  Thorn ;  but  he  was  evidently  struck  with 
astonishment  at  hearing  that  it  was  Levison.  If  they 
have  not  some  secret  between  them,  Mr.  Archibald, 
I'll  never  believe  my  own  eyes  again." 

"Mrs.  Hare's  opinion  is  that  Bethel  had  to  do  with 
the  murder,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle  in  a  low  tone. 

"If  the  murder  is  their  secret,  rely  upon  it  Bethel 
had,"  was  the  answer.  "Mr.  Archibald,  it  seems  to 
me  that  now  or  never  is  the  time  to  clear  up  Richard.  " 

"Ay.  But  how  set  about  it?"  responded  Mr. 
Carlyle. 

Mr,  Carlyle  was  somewhat  surprised  when  Barbara 
came  to  him  that  evening,  and  with  a  serious  face 
said: 

"Archibald,  I  do  fear  I  have  done  a  foolish  thing." 

He  laughed.  "I  fear  we  all  do  that  at  times,  Bar- 
bara.    What  is  it?" 

He  had  seated  himself  in  one  of  Barbara's  favorite 
low  chairs,  and  she  stood  before  him,  leaning  on  his 
shoulder,  her  face  a  little  behind,  so  that  he  could  not 
see  it.  In  her  delicacy  she  would  not  look  at  him 
while  she  spoke  what  she  was  going  to  speak. 

"It  is  something  that  I  have  had  upon  my  mind  for   • 
years,  and  I  did  not  like  to  tell  it  to  you." 

"For  years?" 

"You  remember  that  night,  years  ago,  when  Rich- 
ard was  at  the  Grove  in  disguise?     He " 

"Which  night,  Barbara?     He  came  more  than  once. " 

"The   night — the  night   that   Lady    Isabel    quitted 
East  Lynne,"  she  answered,  not  knowing  how  better 
to  bring  it  to  his  recollection — and  she  stole  her  hand 
lovingly  into  his  as  she  said  it.       "Richard  came  back\ 
after  his  departure,  saying  that  he  had  met  Thorn  in  | 
Bean  Lane.       He  described  the  peculiar  motion  of  his  , 
hand    as  he   threw  back  his  hair  from  his  brow;  he  |    , 
spoke  of  the  white  hand  and  the  diamond  ring,  how  it;  s^ 
glittered  in  the  moonlight.     Do  you  remember?" 

"I  do." 

"The  motion  appeared  perfectly  familiar  to  me,  for 


322  EAST  LYNNE 

I  have  seen  it  repeatedly  tised  by  one  then  staying  at 
East  Lynne.  I  wondered  you  did  not  recognize  it. 
From  that  night  I  had  little  doubt  as  to  the  identity 
of  Thorn.  I  believed  that  he  and  Captain  Levison 
were  one. " 

A  pause.     "Why  did  you  not  tell  me  so,  Barbara?" 

"How  could  I  speak  of  that  man  to  you? — at  that 
time?  Afterward,  when  Richard  was  here,  that  snowy 
winter's  day,  he  asserted  that  he  knew  Sir  Francis 
Levison ;  that  he  had  seen  him  and  Thorn  together, 
and  that  put  me  off  the  scent.  But  to-day,  as  I  was 
passing  the  Raven  in  a  carriage,  going  very  slow  on 
account  of  the  crowd,  he  was  perched  out  there  address- 
ing the  people,  and  I  saw  the  very  same  action,  the 
old  action  that  1  remember  so  well." 

Barbara  paused.     Mr.  Carlyle  did  not  interrupt  her. 

"I  feel  a  conviction  that  they  are  the  same;  that 
Richard  must  have  been  under  some  unaccountable 
mistake  in  saying  he  knew  Francis  Levison.  Besides, 
who  but  he,  in  evening  dress,  would  have  been  likely 
to  go  through  Bean  Lane  that  night?  It  leads  to  no 
houses;  but  one  who  wished  to  avoid  the  high  road 
could  get  into  it  from  these  grounds,  and  so  on  to 
West  Lynne.  It  was  proved,  you  know,  that  he  met 
— met  the  carriage  coming  from  Mrs.  Jeafferson's,  and 
returned  with  it  to  East  Lynne.  He  must  have  gone 
back  directly  on  foot  to  West  Lynne  to  get  the  post- 
chaise,  as  was  proved;  and  he  would  naturally  go 
through  Bean  Lane.  Forgive  me,  Archibald,  for 
recalling  these  things  to  you,  but  I  feel  so  sure  that 
Levison  and  Thorn  are  one." 

"I  know  they  are,"  he  quietly  said. 

Barbara,  in  her  astonishment,  drew  back  and  stared 
him  in  the  face,  A  face  of  severe  dignity  it  was  just 
then. 

"Oh,  Archibald!  did  you  know  it  at  that  time?" 

"I  did  not  know  it  until  this  afternoon.  I  never 
suspected  it." 

"I  wonder  you  did  not.     I  have  wondered  often." 

"tt»  do  I — now.     Dill,   Ebenezer  James  and  Otway 


EAST  LYNNE  323 

Bethel — who  came  home  to-day — were  standing  before 
the  Raven,  listening  to  his  speech,  when  Bethel  recog- 
nized him — not  as  Levison — he  was  infinitely  astoss- 
ished  to  find  he  w.as  Levison,  Levison,  they  say,  was 
scared  at  the  recognition,  and  changed  color.  Bethel 
would  give  no  explanation,  and  moved  away,  but  James 
told  Dill  that  Levison  was  the  man  Thorn,  who  used 
to  be  after  Afy  Hallijohn. " 

"How  did  he  know?"  breathlessly  asked  Barbara. 

"Because  Mr.  Ebenezer  was  after  Afy  himself,  and 
repeatedly  saw  Thorn  in  the  wood.  Barbara,  I  believe 
now  that  it  was  Levison  who  killed  Hallijohn,  but 
I  should  like  to  know  what  Bethel  had  to  do  with 
it." 

Barbara  clasped  her  hands.  "How  strange  it  is!" 
she  exclaimed,  in  some  excitement.  "Mamma  told 
me  yesterda}^  that  she  was  convinced  some  discovery 
was  impending  relative  to  the  murder.  She  had  had 
a  most  distressing  dream,  she  said,  connected  with 
Richard  and  Bethel,  and  somebody  else  whom  she 
appeared  to  know  in  the  dream,  but  could  not  recog- 
nize or  remember  when  she  awoke.  She  was  very  ill; 
she  puts  so  much  faith  in  those  wretched  dreams." 

"One  would  think  you  did  also,  Barbara,  by  your 
vehemence." 

"No,  no;  you  know  better.  But  it  is  strange — j^ou 
must  acknowledge  that  it  is — that  so  sure  as  anything 
fresh  happens  touching  the  subject  of  the  m.urder,  so 
sure  is  a  troubled  dream  the  forerunner  of  it.  Mamma 
does  not  dream  at  other  times.  Bethel  denied  to  you 
that  he  knew  Thorn." 

"I  know  he  did." 

"And  now  it  turns  out  that  he  does  know  him;  and 
he  is  always  in  mamma's  dreams— none  more  promi- 
nent in  them  than  Bethel.  But,  Archibald,  I  am  not 
telling  you — I  have  sent  for  Richard." 

"You  have?" 

"I  felt  sure  that  Levison  was  Thorn;  I  did  not 
expect  that  others  would  recognize  him,  and  I  acted 
on  the  impulse  of  the  moment  and  wrote  to  Richard, 


324  EAST  LYNNE 

telling  him  to  be  here  on  Saturday  evening.  The 
letter  is  gone." 

"Well,  we  must  shelter  him  as  best  we  can." 

*' Archibald,  dear  Archibald,  what  can  be  done  to 
clear  him?"  she  asked,  the  tears  risiiig  to  her  eyes. 

''I  cannot  act  against  Levison." 

*'Not  act?  not  act  for  Richard?" 

He  bent  his  clear,  truthful  eyes  upon  her.  "My 
dearest,  how  can  I?"  She  looked  a  little  rebellious, 
and  the  tears  fell.  "You  have  not  considered,  Barbara. 
It  would  look  like  my  own  revenge." 

"Forgive  me,"  she  softly  whispered.  "You  are 
always  right.  I  did  not  think  of  it  in  that  light.  But 
what  steps  can  be  taken?" 

"It  is  a  case  encompassed  with  difficulties,''  mused 
Mr.  Carlyle.     "Let  us  wait  till  Richard  comes." 

"Do  you  happen  to  have  a  five-pound  note  in  your 
pocket,  Archibald?  I  had  not  one  to  send  him,  and 
borrowed  it  from  Madame  Vine."  He  took  out  his 
pocketbook  and  gave  her  the  money. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 

A   FADING   CHILD 

In  the  gray  parlor,  in  the  dark  twilight  of  the  April 
evening,  for  it  was  getting  on  into  the  night,  were 
William  Carlyle  and  Lady  Isabel.  It  had  been  a 
warm  day,  but  the  spring  evenings  were  still  chilly, 
and  a  fire  burned  in  the  grate  There  was  no  blaze, 
the  red  embers  were  smoldering  and  half  dead,  but 
Madame  Vine  did  not  heed  the  fire.  William  lay  on 
the  sofa,  and  she  sat  by,  looking  at  him.  Her  glasses 
were  off,  for  the  tears  wetted  them  continually;  and 
it  was  not  the  recognition  of  the  children  that  she 
feared.  He  was  tired  with  the  drive  to  Lynneborough 
and  back,  and  lay  with  his  eyes  shut;  she  thought 
asleep.     Presently  he  opened  them. 

"How  long  will  it  be  before  I  die?" 

The  words  took  her  utterly  by  surprise,  and  her 


EAST  LYNNE  325 

heart  went  round  in  a  whirl.  *'What  do  you  mean, 
William?     Who  said  anything  about  your  dying?" 

"Oh,  I  know.  I  know  by  the  fuss  there  is  over  me. 
You  heard  what  Hannah  said  the  other  night?" 

"What?     When?" 

"When  she  brought  in  the  tea,  and  I  was  lying  on 
the  rug.  I  was  not  asleep,  though  you  thought  I  was. 
You  told  her  she  ought  to  be  more  cautious,  for  that  I 
might  not  have  been  asleep." 

"I  don't  remember  much  about  it,"  said  Lady 
Isabel,  at  her  wits'  end  how  to  remove  the  impression 
that  Hannah's  words  must  have  created.  "Hannah 
talks  great  nonsense  sometimes." 

"She  said  'I  was  going  on  fast  to  the  grave. '  " 

"Did  she?  Nobody  attends  to  Hannah.  She  is  only 
a  foolish  girl.  We  shall  soon  have  you  well,  whea 
the  warm  weather  comes." 

"Madame  Vine." 

"Well,  my  darling?" 

"Where's  the  use  of  your  trying  to  deceive  me? 
Do  you  think  I  don't  see  that  you  are  doing  it?  I  am 
not  a  baby;  you  might  if  it  were  Archibald.  What  is 
the  matter  with  me?" 

"Nothing.  Only  you  are  not  strong.  When  you 
get  strong  again  you  will  be  as  well  as  ever." 

William  shook  his  head  in  disbelief.  He  was  pre- 
cisely that  sort  of  child  from  whom  it  is  next  to  impos- 
sible to  disguise  facts;  quick,  thoughtful,  observant, 
and  advanced  beyond  his  years.  Had  no  words  been 
dropped  in  his  hearing,  he  would  have  suspected  the 
evil  by  the  care  evinced  for  him,  but  plenty  of  words 
had  been  dropped;  hints  by  which  he  had  gathered 
suspicions;  broad  assertions,  like  Hannah's,  which  had 
too  fully  supplied  it;  and  the  boy,  in  his  inmost  heart, 
knew  as  well  that  death  was  coming  for  him  as  that 
death  itself  did. 

"Then,  if  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  v.-hv 
could  not  Dr.  Martin  speak  to  you  before  me  to-day? 
Why  did  he  send  me  into  the  other  room  while  he  told 


326  EAST  LYNNE 

you  what  he  thought?  Ah,  Madame  Vine,  I  am  as 
wise  as  you.*' 

'*A  wise  little  boy,  but  mistaken  sometimes,"  she 
said,  from  her  aching  heart, 

"It's  nothing  to  die,  when  God  loves  us.  Lord 
Vane  says  so.     He  had  a  little  brother  who  died. " 

"A  sickly  child  who  was  never  likely  to  live;  he  had 
been  pale  and  ailing  from  a  baby,"  said  Lady  Isabel. 

*'Why!  did  you  know  him?" 

*'I — I  heard  so, "  she  replied,  turning  off  her  thought- 
less avowal  in  the  best  manner  she  could. 

"Don't  you  know  that  I  am  going  to  die?" 

"No." 

"Then  why  have  you  been  grieving  since  we  left 
Dr.  Martin's?  And  why  do  you  grieve  at  all  for  me? 
I  am  not  your  child." 

The  words,  the  scene  altogether,  overcame  her. 
She  knelt  down  by  the  sofa,  and  her  tears  burst  forth 
freely.      "There!  you  see,"  cried  William. 

*'Oh,  William,  I — I  had  a  little  boy  of  my  own  once, 
and  when  I  look  at  you  I  think  of  him,  and  that  is 
why  I  cry." 

*'I  know.  You  have  told  us  of  him  before.  His 
name  was  William,  too." 

She  leaned  over  him,  her  breath  mingling  with  his. 
She  took  his  little  hand  in  hers.  "William,  do  you 
know  that  those  whom  God  loves  best  He  takes  the 
first?  Were  you  to  die,  you  would  go  to  Heaven, 
leaving  all  the  cares  and  sorrows  of  the  world  behind 
you.  It  would  have  been  happier  for  many  of  us  had 
we  died  in  infancy." 

"Would  it  have  been  happier  for  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  faintly  said.  "I  have  had  more  than 
my  share  of  sorrow.  Sometimes  I  think  that  I  cannot 
support  it." 

"Is  it  not  past,  then?     Have  you  sorrovvT  now?" 

**I  have  it  always.  I  shall  have  it  till  I  die.  Had  I 
died  a  child,  William,  I  should  have  escaped  it.  Oh', 
the  world  is  full  of  it!  full  and  full." 

**What  sort  of  sorrow?" 


EAST  LYNNE  32T 

**Pain,  sickness,  care,  trouble,  sin,  remorse,  weari- 
ness, "  she  wailed  out.  "I  cannot  enumerate  the  half 
that  the  world  brings  upon  us.  When  you  are  very, 
very  tired,  William,  does  it  not  seem  a  luxury,  a  sweet 
happiness,  to  lie  down  at  night  in  bed,  waiting  for 
sleep?"  4 

"Yes.     And  I  am  often  tired;  as  tired  as  that." 

"Then  just  so  do  we,  who  are  tired  out  with  the 
world's  cares,  long  for  the  grave  in  which  we  shall  lie 
down  to  rest.  We  covet  it,  William;  long  for  it; 
almost  pray  for  it;  but  you  cannot  understand  that." 

**We  don't  lie  in  the  grave,  Madame  Vine." 

"No,  no,  child.  Our  bodies  lie  there,  to  be  raised 
again  in  beauty  at  the  last  day.  We  go  into  a  blessed 
place  of  rest,  where  sorrow  and  pain  cannot  come. 
I  wish — 1  wish,"  she  added,  with  a  bursting  heart, 
"that  you  and  I  were  both  there!" 

"Who  says  the  world  is  so  sorrowful,  Madame  Vine? 
I  think  it  is  lovely,  especially  when  the  sun's  shining 
on  a  hot  day,  and  the  butterflies  come  out.  You 
should  see  East  Lynne  on  a  summer's  morning,  when 
you  are  running  up  and  down  the  slopes,  and  the  trees 
are  wavering  overhead,  and  the  sky's  blue,  and  the  roses 
and  the  flowers  are  all  out.  You  would  not  call  it  a 
sad  world." 

"A  pleasant  world;  one  we  might  regret  to  leave,  if 
we  were  not  wearied  by  pain  and  care.  But  what  is 
this  world,  take  it  at  its  best,  in  comparison  with  the 
other  world,  Heaven?  I  have  heard  of  some  people 
who  are  afraid  of  death ;  they  fear  they  shall  not  go  to 
it;  but  when  God  takes  a  little  child  there  it  is  because 
He  loves  him.  'It  is  a  land, '  as  Mrs.  Barbauld  says, 
'where  the  roses  are  without  thorns,  where  the  flowers 
are  not  mixed  with  brambles '  " 

"I  have  seen  the  flowers,"  interrupted  William, 
rising  in  his  earnestness.  "They  are  ten  times 
brighter  than  our  flowers  are  here." 

"Seen  the  flowers!  The  flowers  we  shall  see  in 
Heaven?"  she  echoed.  "1  have  seen  a  picture  of  them. 
We  went  to  Lynneborough  to  see  Martin's  picture  of 


328  EASTLYNNE 

the  Last  Judgment.  I  don't  mean  Dr.  Martin,"  said 
William,  interrupting  himself. 

"I  know." 

* 'There  were  three  large  pictures.  One  was  called 
the  'Plains  of  Heaven,'  and  I  liked  that  best;  and  so 
we  all  did.  Oh,  you  should  have  seen  it!  Did  you 
ever  see  them,  Madame  Vine?" 

"No.     I  have  heard  of  them." 

"There  was  a  river,  you  know,  and  boats,  beautiful 
gondolas  they  looked,  taking  the  redeemed  to  the 
shores  of  Heaven.  They  were  shadowy  figures  in 
white  robes,  myriads  and  myriads  of  them,  for  they 
reached  all  up  in  the  air  to  the  holy  city ;  it  seemed  to 
be  in  the  clouds,  coming  down  from  God.  The  flowers 
grew  on  the  banks  of  the  river — pink  and  blue  and 
violet,  all  colors  they  were,  but  so  bright  and 
beautiful;  brighter  than  our  flowers  are." 

"Who  took  you  to  see  the  pictures?" 

"Papa.  He  took  me  and  Lucy;  and  Mrs.  Hare 
went  with  us,  and  Barbara— she  was  not  our  mamma 
then.  But,  madame" — dropping  his  voice — "what  do 
you  think  Lucy  asked  papa?" 

"What  did  she  ask  him?" 

"She  asked  whether  mamma  was  amongst  that 
crowd  in  the  white  robes,  whether  she  was  gone  up  to 
Heaven?  Our  mamma  that  was,  you  know — Lady 
Isabel.  We  were  in  front  of  the  picture  at  the  time, 
and  lots  of  people  heard  what  she  said." 

Lady  Isabel  dropped  her  face  upon  her  hands. 
"What  did  your  papa  answer?"  she  breathed, 

"I  don't  know.  Nothing,  1  think.  He  was  talking 
to  Barbara.  But  it  was  very  stupid  of  Lucy,  because 
Wilson  has  told  her  over  and  over  again  that  she  must 
never  talk  of  Lady  Isabel  to  papa.  Miss  Manning  has 
told  her  so,  too.  When  we  got  home,  and  Wilson 
heard  of  it,  she  said  Lucy  deserved  a  good  shaking  " 

"Why  must  Lady  Isabel  not  be  talked  of  to  him?" 
A  moment  after  the  question  had  left  her  lips  she 
wondered  what  possessed  her  to  give  utterance  to  it. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  William,  in  a  whisper;  "she  ran 


EAST  LYNNE  329 

away  from  papa.  Lucy  talks  nonsense  about  her  hav- 
ing been  kidnapped,  but  she  knows  nothing.  I  do, 
though  they  don't  think  it,  perhaps." 

"She  may  be  among  the  redeemed  some  time,  Wil- 
liam, and  you  with  her." 

He  fell  back  on  the  sofa  pillow  with  a  weary  sigh 
and  lay  in  silence.  Lady  Isabel  shaded  her  face  and 
remained  in  silence  also.  Soon  she  was  aroused  from 
it;  William  was  in  a  fit  of  loud,  sobbing  tears.  "Oh, 
I  don't  want  to  die!  I  don't  want  to  die!  Why 
should  I  go  and  leave  papa  and  Lucy?" 

She  hung  over  him ;  she  clasped  her  arms  around 
him;  her  tears,  her  sobs,  mingled  with  his.  She  whis- 
pered to  him  sweet  and  soothing  words;  she  placed 
him  so  that  he  might  sob  out  his  grief  upon  her  bosom; 
and  in  a  little  while  the  paroxysm  had  passed. 

"Hark!"  exclaimed  William.      *' What's  that?" 

A  sound  of  talking  and  laughter  in  the  hall.  Mr. 
Carlyle,  Lord  Mount  Severn  and  his  son  were  leaving 
the  dining-room.  They  had  some  committee  appoint- 
ment that  evening  at  West  Lynne,  and  were  departing 
to  keep  it.  As  the  hall  door  closed  upon  them,  Bar- 
bara came  into  the  gray  parlor.  Up  rose  Madame 
Vine,  hastily  assuming  her  spectacles,  and  took  her 
seat  soberly  upon  her  chair. 

"All  in  the  dark!  And  your  fire  going  out!" 
exclaimed  Barbara,  as  she  hastened  to  stir  the  latter 
and  send  it  into  a  blaze.  "Who  is  that  on  the  sofa? 
William,  you  ought  to  be  in  bed." 

"Not  yet,  mamma.     I  don't  want  to  go  yet.*' 

"But  it  is  quite  time  that  you  should, "she  returned, 
ringing  the  bell.  "To  sit  up  at  night  is  not  the  way 
to  make  you  strong." 

William  was  dismissed.  And  then  she  turned  to 
Madame  Vine  and  inquired  what  Dr.  Martin  had 
said. 

"He  said  the  lungs  were  undoubtedly  affected;  but, 
like  all  doctors,  he  would  give  no  decisive  opinion.  I 
could  see  that  he  had  formed  one." 

Mrs.   Carlyle  looked  at  her.     The   firelight   played 


330  EAST  LYNNE 

Upon  her  face,  played  especially  upon  the  spectacles, 
and  she  moved  her  chair  into  the  shade. 

"Dr.  Martin  will  see  him  again  next  week;  he  is 
coming  to  Vvest  Lynne.  I  am  sure,  by  the  tone  of 
his  voice,  by  his  evasive  manner,  that  he  anticipates 
the  worst,  although  he  would  not  say  so  in  words." 

"I  will  take  William  into  West  Lynne  myself,"  said 
Barbara.  "The  doctor  will,  of  course,  tell  me.  I 
came  in  to  pay  my  debts,"  she  added,  dismissing  the 
subject  of  the  child,  and  holding  out  a  five-pound  note. 

Lady  Isabel  mechanically  stretched  out  her  hand 
for  it. 

"Whilst  we  are  upon  the  money  topic,"  resumed 
Barbara,  in  a  gay  tone,  "will  you  allow  me  to  inti- 
mate that  both  myself  and  Mr.  Carlyle  very  much  dis- 
approve of  your  making  presents  to  the  children?  I 
was  calculating,  at  a  rough  guess,  the  cost  of  the  toys 
and  things  you  have  bought  for  them,  and  I  think  it 
must  amount  to  a  very  large  portion  of  the  salary  you 
have  received." 

"I  have  no  one  else  to  spend  my  money  on;  I  love 
the  children,"  was  madame's  answer,  somewhat 
sharply  given,  as  if  she  were  jealous  of  the  interfer- 
ence between  her  and  the  children,  and  would 
resent  it. 

"Nay,  you  have  yourself.  And  if  you  do  not 
require  much  outlay,  you  have,  1  should  suppose,  a 
reserve  fund  to  which  to  put  your  money.  Be  so  kind 
as  to  talie  the  hint,  madame;  otherwise  I  shall  be 
compelled  more  peremptorily  to  forbid  your  generos- 
ity. It  is  very  good  of  you,  very  kind ;  but  if  you  do 
not  think  of  yourself,  we  must  for  you." 

"1  will  buy  them  less,"  was  the  murmured  answer. 
"I  must  give  them  a  little  token  of  love  now  and 
then." 

"That  you  are  welcome  to  do;  a  'little  token'  once  in 
a  way;  but  not  the  costly  toys  you  have  been  purchas- 
ing." 


EAST  LYNNE  331 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

MR.  CARLYLE  INVITED  TO  SOME   PATE  DE   FOIE  GRAS 

A  sighing,  moaning  wind  swept  round  the  domains 
of  East  Lynne.  Bending  the  tall  poplar  trees,  in  the 
distance,  swaying  the  oaks  and  elms  nearer,  rustling 
the  fine  old  chestnuts  in  the  park;  a  melancholy, 
sweeping,  fitful  wind.  The  weather  had  changed, 
gathering  clouds  seemed  to  be  threatening  rain;  so,  at 
least,  deemed  one  wayfarer  who  was  journeying  on  a 
solitary  road  that  Saturday  night. 

He  was  on  foot.  A  man  in  the  garb  of  a  sailor,  with 
black,  curling  ringlets  of  hair,  and  black,  curling 
whiskers;  a  prodigious  pair  of  whiskers,  hiding  his 
neck  above  his  blue  turned  collar,  hiding  partially  his 
face.  The  glazed  hat,  brought  low  upon  the  brows, 
concealed  it  still  more;  and  he  wore  a  loose,  rough 
pea-jacket,  and  wide,  rough  trousers,  hitched  up  with 
a  belt.  Bearing  steadily  on,  he  struck  into  Bean  Lane, 
a  by-way  already  mentioned  in  this  history,  and  from 
thence,  passing  through  a  small,  unfrequented  gate, 
he  found  himself  in  the  grounds  of  East  Lynne. 

"Let's  see,"  mused  he,  as  he  closed  the  gate  behind 
him,  and  slipped  its  bolt.  "The  covered  walk?  That 
must  be  near  the  acacia  trees.  Then  I  must  wind 
round  to  the  right.  I  wonder  if  either  of  them  will 
be  there,  waiting  for  me?" 

Yes.  Pacing  the  covered  walk  in  her  bonnet  and 
mantle,  as  if  taking  an  evening  stroll — had  any  one 
encountered  her,  which  was  very  unlikely,  seeing  that 
it  was  the  most  retired  spot  on  the  grounds — was  Mrs. 
Carlyle. 

"Oh,  Richard,  my  poor  brother!" 

Locked  in  a  yearning  embrace,  emotion  overpow- 
ered both.  Barbara  sobbed  like  a  child.  A  little  while, 
and  then  he  put  her  from  him  to  look  at  her. 


332  EAST  LYNNE 

"So,  Barbara,  you  are  a  wife  now!" 

"Oh,  the  happiest  wife!  Richard,  sometimes  I  ask 
myself'  what  I  have  done  that  God  should  have  show- 
ered down  blessings  so  great  upon  me.  But  for  the 
sad  trouble  when  I  think  of  you,  my  life  would  be  as 
one  long  summer's  day.  I  have  the  sweetest  baby; 
he  is  now  nearly  a  year  old.  1  shall  have  another 
soon,  God  willing.  And  Archibald — oh,  I  am  so 
happy!" 

She  broke  suddenly  off  with  the  name  "Archibald" 

not  even  to  Richard  could  she  speak  of  her  intense 

love  for  her  husband. 

"How  is  it  at  the  Grove?"  he  asked. 

"Quite  well;  quite  as  usual.  Mamma  has  been  in 
better  health  lately.  She  does  not  know  of  this  visit ; 
but " 

"I  must  see  her,"  interrupted  Richard.  "1  did  not 
see  her  last  time,  you  remember." 

"All  in  good  time  to  talk  of  that.  How  are  you 
getting  on  in  Liverpool?     What  are  you  doing?" 

"Don't  inquire  too  closely,  Barbara.  I  have  no 
regular  work,  but  I  get  a  job  at  the  docks  now  and 
then,  and  rub  on.  It  is  seasonable  help,  that  which 
comes  to  me  from  you.     Is  it  from  you  or  Carlyle?" 

Barbara  laughed.  "How  are  we  to  distinguish?  His 
money  is  mine  now,  and  mine  is  his.  We  have  not 
separate  purses,  Richard;  we  send  it  to  you  jointly." 

"Sometimes  I  have  fancied  it  came  from  my 
mother." 

Barbara  shook  her  head.  "We  have  never  allowed 
mamma  to  know  that  you  left  London,  or  that  we  hold 
an  address  where  we  can  write  to  you.  It  would  not 
have  done." 

"Why  have  you  summoned  me  here,  Barbara?  What 
has  turned  up?" 

"Thorn  has — I  think.  You  would  know  him  again, 
Richard?" 

"Know  him!"  passionately  echoed  Richard  Hare. 
"Were  you  aware  that  a  contest  for  the  membership 
is  now  going  on  at  West  Lynne?" 


EAST  LYNNE  333 

**I  saw  it  in  the  newspapers.  Carlyle  against  Sir 
Francis  Levison.  I  say,  Barbara,  how  could  he  think 
of  coming  here  to  oppose  Carlyle?" 

**I  don't  know.  I  wonder  that  he  should  come  here 
for  other  reasons  also.  First  of  all,  Richard,  tell  me 
how  you  came  to  know  Sir  Francis  Levison.  You 
said  you  knew  him,  and  that  you  had  seen  him  with 
Thorn." 

'*So  I  do  know  him,"  answered  Richard.  '"And  I 
saw  him  with  Thorn  twice." 

"Know  him  by  sight  only,  I  presume.     Let  me  hear    / 
how  you  came  to  know  him." 

"He  was  pointed  out  to  me.  I  saw  Thorn  walking 
arm-in-arm  with  a  gentleman,  and  I  showed  them  to 
the  waterman  at  the  cab-stand  hard  by.  'Do  you 
know  that  fellow?'  I  asked  him,  indicating  Thorn — for 
I  wanted  to  come  at  who  he  really  is.  'I  don't  know 
that  one,'  the  old  chap  answered,  'but  the  one  with 
him  is  Levison,  the  baronet.  They  are  often  together, 
a  couple  of  swells  both.'  And  a  couple  of  swells  they 
looked." 

"And  that  was  how  you  got  to  know  Levison?" 

"That  was  it,"  said  Richard  Hare. 

"Then,    Richard,    you   and  the  waterman    made   a  f 
mistake  between  you.     He  pointed  out  the  wrong,  or  >i 
you  did  not  look  at  the  right.      Thorn  is  Sir  Francis 
Levison." 

Richard  stared  at  her  v/ith  all  his  eyes.  "Nonsense, 
Barbara!" 

"He  is.  I  have  suspected  it  ever  since  the  night 
you  saw  him  in  Bean  Lane.  The  action  you  described 
of  his  pushing  back  his  hair,  his  white  hands,  his 
sparkling  diamond  ring,  could  only  apply  to  one  person 
— Francis  Levison.  On  Thursday  I  drove  by  the 
Raven  when  he  was  addressing  the  people,  and  I 
noticed  the  self-same  action.  On  the  impulse  of  the 
moment  1  wrote  off  for  you,  that  you  might  come  and 
set  the  doubt  at  rest.  I  need  not  have  done  so;  for 
when  Mr.  Carlyl^  returned  home  that  evening  and  I 
acquainted  him  with  what  I  had  done,  he  told  me  that 


334  EAST  LYNNE 

Thorn  and  Francis  Levison  are  one  and  the  same, 
mway  Bethel  recognized  him  that  same  afternoon; 
and  so  did  Ebenezer  James. '  •  j  -d-  i,„,^ 

"Thev  would  both  know  him,"  cried  Richard, 
ea Jrlv  "James  I  am  positive  would  for  he  was 
S  ng  down  to  Hallijohn's  often  then,  and  saw 
Thorn  f  dozen  times.  Otway  Bethel  must  have  seen 
Sm  abo-though  he  protested  l^e„^ad  not    Barbara 

The  name  was  uttered  m  affright  and  Kicnara 
plunged  amidst  the  trees,  for  somebody  was  in  sight. 
A  tall  dark  form,  advancing  from  the  endof  the  walk^ 
Barbara  smiled;  it  was  only  Mr.  Carlyle,  and  Richard 

^"?-^^Sfs1tin,-  Richard!"  Mr  Carlyle  exclaimed  as 
he  shook  Richard  cordially  by  the  hand.  So  you 
have  changed  your  traveling  costume! 

•'I  couldn't^enture  here  again  in  the  old  suit;  it 

had   been  seen,   you    said,"   «t"™«^  ,^''*?'^*^- Two 
bought   this  rig-out  yesterday,    second-hand.       Two 
pounds  for  the  lot;  I  think  they  shaved  me. 
^  -'Ringlets  and  all?"  laughed  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"It's  the  old  hair,  oiled  and  curled,  cried  Dick 
"The  barber  charged  a  shilling  for  doing  it,  and  cut 
my  hair  into  the  bargain.  I  told  him  no  to  spare 
grease,  for  I  liked  the  curls  to  shine;  sailors  always  da 
Mr  Carlyle,  Barbara  says  that  Levison  and  that  brute 
Thorn  have  turned  out  to  be  the  same.  ' 

"They  have,  Richard,  as  it  appears.     Nevertheless 
It  may  be  as  well  for  you  to  take  a  private  view  of 
Levison  before  anything  is  done-as  you  once  did  of 
the  other  Thorn.     It  would  not  do  to  make  a  stir,  and 
then  discover  that  there  was  a  mistake— that  he  was 

not  Thorn."  „.  ,       ,  i 

"When  can  I  see  him?"  asked  Richard  eagerly 
"It  must  be  contrived  somehow.    Were  you  to  hang 

about  the  door  of  the  Raven— this  evening— you  d  be 

sure  to  get  the  opportunity,  for  he  is  always  passing 

in  and  out.     No  one  will  know  you.  " 

"I  shall  look  odd  to  people's  eyes.      You  don  t  see 

many  sailors  in  West  Lynne." 


EAST  LYNNE  335 

**Not  odd  at  all.  We  have  a  Russian  bear  here  at 
present;  and  you'll  be  nobody  beside  him." 

"A  Russian  bear!"  repeated  Richard,  while  Bar- 
bara laughed. 

''Mr,  Otway  Bethel  has  returned  in  what  is  popu- 
larly supposed  to  be  a  bear's  hide ;  hence  the  new  name 
he  IS  greeted  with.  Will  it  turn  out,  Richard,  that  he 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  murder?" 

Richard  shook  his  head.  "It  was  not  possible,  Mr. 
Carlyle;  I  have  said  so  all  along.  But  about  Levison? 
If  I  find  him  to  be  the  man  ^Thorn— what  steps  can 
then  be  taken?" 

l^'That's  the  difficulty,'*  said  Mr.  Carlyle. 
'*Who  will  set  it  going?     Who  will  move  on  it?" 
"You  must,  Richard." 

"I?"  uttered  Richard  Hare,  in  consternation  "I 
move  in  it?" 

;'You  yourself.  Who  else  is  there?  I  have  been 
thinking  it  well  over," 

"Will  you  not  take  it  upon  yourself,  Mr.  Car- 
lyle?" 

[[No— being  Levison,"  was  the  quiet  answer. 
"Curse  him!"  impetuously  retorted  Richard.     "But 
why  should  you   scruple,    Mr.    Carlyle?      Most   men, 
wronged  as  you  have  been,  would  leap  at  the  opportu- 
nity for  revenge." 

"For  the  crime  perpetrated  upon  Hallijohn  I  would 
pursue  him  to  the  scaffold.  For  my  own  wrong,  no. 
But  the  remaining  negative  has  cost  me  something. 
Many  a  time,  since  this  appearance  of  his  at  West 
Lynne,  have  I  been  obliged  to  exercise  violent  control 
upon  myself,  or  1  should  have  horsewhipped  him 
within  an  ace  of  his  life. " 

"If  you  horsewhipped  him  to  death  he  would  only 
meet  his  deserts." 

"What  I  advise  is  to  apply  to  Ball  &  Treadman  and 
get  them  to  take  up  the  case." 

Ball  &  Treadman— as  the  brass  plate  on  their  office 
doors  intimated — were  conveyancers  and  attorneys-at- 
law. 


336  EAST  LYNNE 

Lawyer  Ball  was  at  breakfast  when  Mr.  Carlyle  was 

shown  in.  ,  i    i.-     ^^  »» 

"Hallo   Carlyle!     You  are  here  betimes, 
-fifstmrdon't  disturb    yourself.      Don't  ring;  I 

^'^^ThrmSt'dtlicious  pate  de  >V'   -..ed  Lawyer 
Ball,  w\o  was  a  regular  gourmand.    "I  get  'em  direct 

^Tr^Sle  resisted  the  offered  dainty  with  a  smile 
-I   have  come  on  business,"  said  he,  "not  to  feast. 
Before  I  enter  upon  it,  you  will   give  me  your  word, 
Ball   that  my  conimunication  shall  be  held  sacred,  m 
the  ^vent  of  your  not  consenting  to  pursue  it  further? 

-Certainly  1  will.     What  business  is  it      Some  tha. 
offends  the  delicacy  of  the  Carly  e  office.^"  he  adaed 
with  a  laugh.     ''A  would-be  client,  whom  you  turn 
over  to  me,  in  your  exclusiveness?" 

-It  is  a  client  for  whom  I  cannot  act.  But  not  from 
the  motives  you  assume.  It  concerns  that  affair  of 
Hallijohn's,"  Mr.  Carlyle  continued,  bending  rorward 
and  somewhat  dropping  his  voice— '/the  murder. 

Lawyer  Ball,  who  had  just  taken  m  a  delicious  bonne 
boucheeoi  the  foie  gras,  bolted  it  whole  in  his  surprise 
-Why,  that  was  enacted  ages  and  ages  ago;  it  is  past 
and  done  with,"  he  exclaimed. 

-Not  done  with,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle.  -Circumstances 
have  come  to  light  which  tend  to  indicate  that  Richard 
Hare  was  innocent;  that  it  was  another  who  committed 

the  murder."  ,   , 

-In  conjunction  with  him?"  interrupted  the  attorney. 
-No;  alone.     Richard  Hare  had  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  it.     He  was  not  present  at  the  time." 
-Do  you  believe  that?"  asked  Lawyer  Ball. 
' '  I  have  believed  it  for  years. " 
-Then  who  did  commit  that  murder?" 
-Richard  accuses  one  of  the  name  of  Thorn.   Several 
years  back  I  had  a  meeting  with  Richard  Hare  and  he 
disclosed  certain  facts  to  me  which,  if  correct,  could 
not  fail  to  prove  that  he  was  innocent.       Since   that 
period  this  impression  has  been  gradually  confirmed 


EAST  LYNNE  337 

little  by  little,  trifle  upon  trifle,  and  I  would  now 
stake  my  life  upon  his  innocence.  I  should  long  ago 
have  moved  in  the  matter,  hit  or  miss,  could  I  hav 
lighted  upon  Thorn ;  but  he  was  not  to  be  found,  nor 
any  clew  to  him,  and  we  now  know  that  this  name 
Thorn  was  an  assumed  one." 

''Is  he  to  be  found?" 

*'He  is  found.  He  is  at  West  Lynne.  Mark  you,  I 
don't  accuse  him;  I  do  not  ofeer  an  opinion  upon  his 
guilt;  I  only  state  my  belief  in  Richard's  innocence;  it 
may  have  been  another  who  did  it,  neither  Richard 
nor  Thorn.  It  was  my  firm  intention  to  take  up  Rich- 
bird's  cause  the  instant  1  saw  my  way  clearly  in  it; 
and  now  that  that  time  has  come  I  am  debarred  from 
doing  so." 

*'What  debars  you?"  asked  Lawyer  Ball. 

''Hence  I  come  to  you,"  continued  Mr.  Carlyle,  dis- 
regarding the  question.  ''1  come  to  you  on  the  part  of 
Richrd  Hare.  I  have  seen  him  lately  and  conversed 
with  him.  I  gave  him  my  reasons  for  not  persoi- 
ally  acting,  advised  him  to  apply  to  you,  and  prom- 
ised to  come  here  and  open  the  matter.  Will  you  see 
Richard,  in  good  faith,  and  hear  his  story— giving  the 
understanding  that  he  shall  depart  in  secret  and  unmo- 
lested, as  he  came,  if  you  do  not  desire  to  undertake 
the  business?" 

"I'll  give  it  with  all  the  pleasure  in  life,"  freely 
returned  the  attorney.  ''I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to 
harm  poor  Dick  Hare.  And  if  he  can  convince  me  of 
his  innocence,  I'll  do  my  best  to  establish  it." 

"Of  his  own  tale  you  must  be  the  judge.  I  do  not 
wish  to  bias  you.  1  have  stated  my  belief  in  his  inno- 
cence; but  I  repeat  that  I  give  no  opinion  myself  as  to 
who  else  may  be  guilty.  Hear  his  account,  and  then 
take  up  the  affair,  or  not,  as  you  think  fit.  He  would 
not  come  to  you  without  your  previous  promise  to  hold 
him  harmless— to  be  his  friend,  in  short,  for  the 
time  being.  When  I  bear  this  promise  to  him  from 
you,  my  part  is  done. ' 

22  Lynne 


338  EAST  LYNNE 


CHAPTER  L 

AN   INTERVIEW 

An  evening  or  two  later  the  interview  between 
Lawyer  Ball  and  Richard  Hare  took  place.  With 
some  difficulty  would  the  lawyer  believe  his  tale;  not 
as  to  its  broad  details — he  saw  that  he  might  give 
ci'edit  to  them;  but  as  to  the  accusation  against  Sir 
Francis  Levison.  Richard  persisted,  mentioning 
every  minute  particular  he  could  think  of;  his  meeting 
him  the  night  of  the  elopement  in  Bean  Lane;  his 
meetings  with  him  again  in  London,  and  Sir  Francis' 
evident  fear  of  him;  and  the  previous  Saturday  night's 
recognition  at  the  door  of  the  Raven.  Not  forgetting 
to  tell  of  the  anonymous  letter  received  by  Justice 
Hare  the  morning  that  Richard  was  in  hiding  at  Mr. 
Carlyle's.  There  was  no  doubt  in  the  world  it  had 
been  sent  by  Francis  Levison  to  frighten  Mr.  Hare 
into  dispatching  him  out  of  West  Lynne,  had  Richard 
taken  refuge  in  his  father's  house.  None  had  more 
cause  to  keep  Dick  from  falling  into  the  hands  of  justice 
than  Francis  Levison. 

*'I  believe  what  you  say,  1  believe  all  you  say,  Mr. 
Richard,  touching  Thorn,"  debated  the  attorney; 
*'but  it's  next  to  impossible  to  take  in  so  astounding  a 
fact  as  that  he  is  Sir  Francis  Levison." 

"You  can  satisfy  yourself  of  the  fact  from  other  lips 
than  mine,"  said  Richard.  "Otway  Bethel  could 
testify  to  It  if  he  would,  though  I  doubt  his  willing- 
ness.    But  there's  Ebenezer  James. ' ' 

''What  does  he  know  about  it?"  asked  the  attorney 
m  surprise.  "Ebenezer  James  is  in  our  office  at  pres- 
ent. ^ 

^    "He  Baw  Thorn  often   enough   in   those  days,  and 
nas,  I  hear,  recognized  him  as  Levison.    You  had  better 


EAST  LYNNE  339 

inquire  of   him.      Should  you  object  to  take  a  case 
against  Levison?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.     Let  me  be  assured  that  I  am  upon     / 
safe  grounds  as  to  the  identity  of  the  man,  and  I'll  J 
proceed   in  it  forthwith.      Levison  is  an  out-and-out 
scoundrel,  as  Levison,  and  deserves  hanging.     I  will 
send  for  James  at  once,  and   hear  what  he  says,"  he 
concluded,  after  a  pause  of  consideration. 

Richard  Hare  started  wildly  up.  "Not  while  I  am 
here;  he  must  not  see  me.  For  Heaven's  sake,  con- 
sider the  peril  to  me,  Mr.  Ball!" 

"Pooh,  pooh!"  laughed  the  attorney.  "Do  you 
suppose  I  have  but  this  one  reception-room?  We  don't 
let  cats  into  cages  where  canar}^  birds  are  kept." 

Ebenezer  James  returned  with  the  messenger  dis- 
patched after  him.  "You'll  be  sure  to  find  him  at  the 
singing  saloon,"  Mr.  Ball  had  said;  and  there  the 
gentleman  was  found. 

"Is  it  any  copying,  sir,  wanted  to  be  done  in  a 
hurry?"  cried  James  as  he  came  in. 

"No,"  replied  the  attorney.  "I  wish  a  question  or 
two  answered;  that's  all.  Did  you  ever  know  Sir 
Francis  Levison  to  go  by  any  name  but  his  own?" 

"Yes,  sir;  he  has  gone  by  the  name  of  Thorn." 

A  pause.     "When  was  this?" 

"It  was  the  autumn  when  Hallijohn  was  killed. 
Thorn  used  to  be  prowling  about  there  in  the  evening 
— in  the  wood  and  at  the  cottage,  I  mean." 

"What  did  he  prowl  for?" 

Ebenezer  James  laughed.  "For  the  same  reason 
that  several  more  did — I  for  one.  He  was  sweet  upon 
Afy  Hallijohn." 

"Where  was  he  living  at  that  time?  I  never  remem- 
ber him  in  West  Lynne. " 

"He  was  not  at  West  Lynne,  sir.  On  the  contrary, 
he  seemed  to  take  precious  good  care  that  West  Lynne 
and  he  kept  separate.  A  splendid  horse  he  rode, 
thoroughbred,  and  he  used  to  come  galloping  into  the 
woods  at  dusk,  get  over  and  chat  with  Miss  Afy,  mount 
and  gallop  away  again." 


340  EAST  LYNNE 

"Where  to?     Where  did  he  come  from?" 

"From  somewhere  near  Swainson;  a  ten  miles'  ride 
Afy  used  to  say  he  had.  Now  that  he  has  appeared 
here  in  his  own  plumage,  of  course  I  can  put  two  and 
two  together,  and  not  be  much  at  fault  for  the  exact 
spot. ' ' 

"And  where  is  that?"  asked  the  lawyer. 

"Levison  Park,"  said  Mr.  Ebenezer.  "There's little 
doubt  he  was  stopping  at  his  uncle's,  and  you  know 
that  is  close  to  Swainson." 

Lawyer  Ball  thought  things  were  becoming  clearer 
— or  darker,  whichever  you  may  please  to  call  it.  He 
paused  again,  and  then  put  a  question  impressibly. 
"James,  have  you  any  doubt  whatever,  or  shadow  of 
doubt,  that  Sir  Francis  Levison  is  the  same  man  you 
knew  as  Thorn?" 

"Sir,  have  I  any  doubt  that  you  are  Mr.  Ball,  or 
that  I  am  Eb  James?"  retorted  Mr.  Ebenezer.  "I  am 
as  certain  of  that  man's  identity  as  I  am  of  yours." 

"Are  you  ready  to  swear  to  the  fact  in  a  court  of 
justice?" 

"Ready  and  willing,  in  any  court  in  the  world. 
To-morrow,  if  I  am  called  upon." 

"Very  well.  You  may  go  back  to  your  singing  club 
now.     Keep  a  silent  tongue  in  5'our  head." 

"All  close,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Ebenezer  James. 

Far  into  the  middle  of  the  night  saw  Lawyer  Ball 
and  Richard  Hare,  the  former  chiefly  occupied  in  tak- 
ing notes  of  Richard's  statement.  "It's  half  a 
crotchet,  this  objection  of  Carlyle's  to  interfere  with 
Levison!"  said  Richard  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  some 
desultorv  conversation.  "Don't  you  think  so,  Mr. 
Ball?" 

The  lawyer  pursed  up  his  lips.  "Um— a  delicate 
point.  Carlyle  was  always  fastidiously  honorable.  I 
should  go  at  him,  thunder  and  fury,  in  his  place;  but 
I  and  Carlyle  are  different." 


EAST  LYNNE  341 


CHAPTER  LI 

THE   WORLD   TURNED   UPSIDE   DOWN 

One  afternoon  Madame  Vine  brought  William  up  to 
Mr.  Carlyle's  office  for  examination  by  Dr.  Martin. 
"What  is  your  opinion?"  asked  Carlyle,  as  the  doctor 
was  leaving. 

*'Well,"  began  the  doctor,  in  a  very  professional 
tone,  "the  boy  is  certainly  delicate.     But " 

"Stay,  Dr.  Martin,"  was  the  interruption,  spoken  in 
a  low,  impressive  voice,  "you  will  deal  candidly  with 
me.  I  must  know  the  truth,  without  disguise.  Tell 
it  me  freely.  "  Dr.  Martin  paused.  "The  truth  is  not 
always  palatable,  Mr.  Carlyle." 

"True.  But  for  that  very  reason  all  the  more  neces- 
sary. Let  me  hear  the  worst.  And  the  child  has  no 
mother,  you  know,  to  be  shocked  with  it." 

"I  fear  that  it  will  be  the  worst." 

"Death?" 

"Ay.  The  seeds  of  consumption  must  have  been 
inherent  in  him.  They  are  showing  themselves  all  too 
plainly." 

What  Mr.  Carlyle  felt  was  not  suffered  to  appear; 
his  feelings  were  entirely  under  his  own  control.  That 
he  was  tenderly  and  sincerely  attached  to  his  children 
there  was  no  doubt.  He  remained  quite  still,  his  eyes 
shaded  by  their  drooping  lids.  A  few  minutes  and  he 
broke  the  silence. 

"How  can  consumption  have  come  to  him?  It  is 
not  in  the  family;  on  my  side,  or — or  on  his  mother's.  " 

"Pardon  me,"  said  the  doctor.  "The  child's  grand- 
mother died  of  consumption — the  Countess  of  Mount 
Severn." 

"They  did  not  call  it  consumption,"  said  Mr. 
Carlyle. 

"I  don't  care  what  they  called  it.     It  was  consump- 


342  EAST  LYNNE 

tion.  Very  slow  and  lingering— mild,  too;  I  grant 
you  that." 

"Is  there  no  hope  for  the  child?" 

Dr.  Martin  looked  at  him.  "You  bade  me  give  you 
the  truth." 

"Nothing  else!  nothing  but  the  truth,"  returned 
Mr.  Carlyle,  his  tone  one  of  mingled  pain  and  com- 
mand. 

"Then  there  is  none — no  hope  whatever.  The  lungs 
are  extensively  diseased." 

"And  how  long " 

"That  I  cannot  say,"  interrupted  the  doctor,  divin- 
ing what  the  next  question  was  to  be.  "He  may 
linger  on  for  months^ — for  a  year,  it  may  even  be — or 
a  very  short  period  may  see  the  termination.  Don't 
worry  him  with  any  more  lessons  and  stuff  of  learning ; 
he'll  never  want  it." 

The  doctor  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  governess  as  he 
spoke;  the  injunction  concerning  her  as  much  as  it 
did  Mr.  Carlyle.  And  the  doctor  started,  for  he 
thought  she  was  fainting;  her  face  had  become  so 
ghastly  white;  he  could  see  it  through  her  veil. 

"You  are  ill,  madame!  you  are  ill!  Trouve  maladel 
don't  you?" 

She  opened  her  lips  to  speak;  her  trembling  lips, 
that  would  not  obey  her.  Dr.  Martin,  in  his  concern, 
pulled  off  the  blue  spectacles.  She  caught  them  from 
him  with  one  hand,  sat  down  on  the  nearest  chair  and 
hid  her  face  with  the  other. 

Mr.  Carlyle,  scarcely  understanding  the  scuffle,  came 
forward.      "Are  you  ill,  Madame  Vine?" 

She  was  putting  on  her  spectacles  under  her  veil, 
her  face  whiter  than  ever.  "Pray  do  not  interrupt 
your  conversation  to  pay  attention  to  me.  1  thank 
you;  I  thank  you  both.  I  am  subject  to — slight 
spasms,  and  they  make  me  look  ill  for  the  moment. 
It  has  passed  now." 

The  doctor  turned  from  her;  Mr.  Carlyle  resumed 
his  place  by  the  window.  "What  should  be  the  treat- 
ment?" asked  the  latter. 


EAST  LYNNE  343 

* 'Almost  anything  you  please — that  the  boy  himself 
likes.  Let  him  play  or  rest,  ride  or  walk,  eat  and 
drink,  or  let  it  alone;  it  cannot  make  much  difference." 

"Doctor,  you  yield  to  it,  as  a  last  hope,  very  lightly." 

Dr.  Martin  shook  his  head.  *'I  speak  as  I  know, 
You  insisted  on  having  my  true  opinion." 

"A  warmer  climate?"  suggested  Mr.  Carlyle,. 
eagerly,  the  idea  crossing  his  mind. 

"It  might  prolong  the  end  for  a  very  little  while — a 
few  weeks,  perhaps — avert  it,  it  could  not.  And  who 
could  take  him?  You  could  not  go;  and  he  has  no 
mother.     No,  I  should  not  advise  it." 

"I  wish  you  had  seen  Wainwright— with  reference 
to  William." 

"I  have  seen  him.  I  met  him  this  afternoon,  by 
chance,  and  told  him  my  opinion.  How  is  Mrs. 
Carlyle?" 

"Pretty  well.  'She  is  not  in  robust  health,  you  are 
aware,  just  now." 

Dr.  Martin  smiled.  "These  things  will  happen. 
Mrs.  Carlyle  has  a  thoroughly  good  constitution;  a  far 
stronger  one  than — than " 

"Than  what?"  said  Mr.  Carlyle,  wondering  why  he 
hesitated. 

"You  must  grant  me  pardon.  I  may  as  well  finish, 
now  I  have  begun;  but  I  was  not  thinking  when  I 
spoke.  She  is  stronger  than  was  Lady  Isabel.  I 
must  be  off  to  catch  the  six  train." 

"You  will  come  over  from  time  to  time  to  East 
Lynne  to  see  William." 

"If  you  wish  it.  It  may  be  a  satisfaction  perhaps. 
Bon  jour,  madame." 

Lady  Isabel  bowed  to  him  as  he  left  the  room  with 
Mr.  Carlyle.  "How  fond  that  French  governess  of 
yours  is  of  the  boy,"  the  doctor  whispered,  as  they 
crossed  the  hall.  "I  detected  it  when  she  brought  him 
to  Lynneborough.  And  you  saw  her  just  now!  that 
emotion  was  all  because  I  said  he  could  not  live. 
Good-by. " 

Mr.  Carlyle  grasped  his  hand.     "Doctor,  I  wish  you 


344  EAST  LYNNE 

could  save  him,"  he  passionately  uttered.  "Ah, 
Carlyle!  if  we  humble  mites  of  human  doctors  could 
but  keep  those  whom  it  is  the  Great  Physician's  good 
pleasure  to  take,  how  we  should  be  run  after!  There's 
hidden  mercy,  remember,  in  the  darkest  cloud. 
Farewell,  my  friend." 

Mr.  Carlyle  returned  to  the  room.  He  approached 
Lady  Isabel,  looking  down  upon  her  as  she  sat;  not 
that  he  could  see  much  of  her  face.  "These  are 
grievous  tidings.  But  you  were  more  prepared  for 
them,  I  fancy,  than  I  was." 

She  started  suddenly  up,  approached  the  window, 
and  looked  out,  as  if  she  saw  somebody  passing  whom 
she  would  gaze  at.  All  of  emotion  was  stirred  up 
within  her;  her  temples  throbbed;  her  heart  beat;  her 
breath  became  hysterical.  Could  she  bear  thus  to 
hold  confidential  converse  with  him  over  the  state  of 
their  child?  She  pulled  off  her  gloves  for  coolness  to 
her  burning  hands,  she  wiped  the  moisture  from  her 
pale  forehead,  she  struggled  for  calmness.  What 
excuse  could  she  offer  to  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"I  love  the  boy  so  very  much,  sir,"  she  said,  half 
turning  round.  "And  the  doctor's  fiat,  too  plainly 
pronounced,  has  given  me  pain,  pain   to  agitation." 

Again  Mr.  Carlyle  approached  her,  following  close 
up  to  where  she  stood.  "You  are  very  kind,  thus  to 
feel  an  interest  in  my  child. " 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Do  not  acquaint  Mrs.  Carlyle,"  he  resumed.  "I 
would  prefer  to  tell  her  myself.  She  must  not  be 
suddenly  grieved  or  alarmed  just  now." 

"Why  should  she  be  either  grieved  or  alarmed?  She 
is  not  his  mother. "  Passionately,  fiercely,  resentfull}'' 
were  the  words  spoken,  as  if  she  would  cast  contempt 
on  Barbara.  But  recollection  returned  to  her  before 
they  had  all  left  her  lips,  and  the  concluding  sentence 
was  wonderfully  toned  down.  Mr.  Carlyle  raised  his 
eyelids,  and  the  tones  of  his  voice  rang  haughtily  on 
her  ear: 

"You  speak  hastily,  madame." 


EAST  LYNNE  345 

William,  who  had  fled  from  the  room  with  the 
avowed  purpose  of  getting  something  nice  from  the 
cook,  here  pushed  his  head  in  at  the  door  to  recon- 
noiter. 

"He's  gone,  isn't  he?  I  would  not  come  back  while 
he  was  here,  for  fear  he  should  give  me  some  cod-liver 
oil  now." 

Mr.  Carlyle  sat  down  and  lifted  William  on  his 
knees,  his  forehead  pressed  lovingly  against  the  boy's 
silky  hair.  "My  darling  child,  the  cod-liver  oil  is  to 
do  you  good,  you  know;  to  make  you  strong." 

"But  I  don't  think  it  does  make  me  strong,  papa. 
Does  Mr.  Martin  say  I  shall  die?" 

"Who  told  you  anything  about  dying?" 

"Oh — some  of  them  talk  of  it." 

"We  must  see  what  we  can  do  toward  curing  you, 
instead  of  letting  you  die,"  responded   Mr.   Carlyle, 
almost  at  a  loss  what  answer  to  make,  and  suppressing 
the  emotion  of  his  own  aching  heart.      "But,  whetherX   , 
we  live  or  die,  we  are  in  the  hands  of  God,  you  know,  I  '^ 
William,   and  whatever  God  wills  is  always  for  the' 
best." 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  papa." 

Mr.  Carlyle  rose  and  lifted  the  boy  toward  Madame 
Vine.  "Take  care  of  him,  madame,"  he  said,  and 
passed  into  the  hall. 

"Here,  papa,  papa!  I  want  you,"  cried  William, 
breaking  from  Madame  Vine's  hands  and  running 
after  him.  "Let  me  walk  home  with  you?  Are  you 
going  to  walk?" 

How  could  he  find  it  in  his  heart  to  deny  anything 
to  the  child  then?  "Very  well,"  he  said.  "Stay  here 
till  I  come  for  you." 

"We  are  going  home  with  papa,"  proclaimed  Wil- 
liam to  Madame  Vine. 

Madame  Vine  did  not  relish  the  news,  but  there  was 
no  help  for  it.  In  a  very  short  time  Mr.  Carlyle 
appeared,  and  they  set  off,  he  holding  William's  hand, 
Madame  Vine  walking  alone,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
child. 


346  EAST  I.YNNE 

"Where's  William  Vane,  papa?"  asked  the  boy. 

'*He  has  gone  on  with  Lord  Mount  Severn." 

Scarcely  had  the  words  been  spoken  when  some  one 
came  bolting  out  of  the  post-office  and  met  them  face 
to  face — almost  ran  against  them,  in  fact,  creating 
some  hindrance.  The  man  looked  confused,  and 
slunk  off  into  the  gutter.  And  you  will  not  wonder 
that  he  did,  when  you  hear  that  it  was  Francis  Levi- 
son.  William,  childlike,  turned  his  head  to  gaze  at 
the  intruder. 

"I  would  not  be  an  ugly,  bad  man,  like  him,  for  the 
world,"  quoth  he,  as  he  turned  it  back  again.  ''Would 
you,  papa?" 

Mr.  Carlyle  did  not  answer,  and  Madame  Vine  cast 
an  involuntary  glance  upon  him  from  her  white  face. 
His  was  impassive,  save  that  a  curl  of  ineffable  scorn 
was  upon  his  lips. 

At  Mr.  Justice  Hare's  gate  they  encountered  that 
gentleman,  who  appeared  to  be  standing  there  to  give 
himself  an  airing.  William  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Hare 
seated  on  the  garden  bench,  outside  the  window,  and 
ran  to  kiss  her.  All  children  loved  Mrs.  Hare.  The 
justice  was  looking — not  pale,  that  would  not  be  a 
term  half  strong  enough — but  yellow.  The  curls  of 
his  best  wig  were  limp,  and  all  his  pomposity  appeared 
to  have  gone  out  of  him. 

''I  say,  Carlyle,  what  on  earth  is  this?"  cried  he,  in 
a  tone  that,  for  him,  was  wonderfully  subdued  and 
meek.  "I  was  not  on  the  bench  this  afternoon,  but 
Pinner  has  been  telling  me  of— of — an  application  that 
was  made  to  them  in  private.  It's  not  true,  you  know; 
it  can't  be;  it's  too  far-fetched  a  tale.  What  do  you 
know  about  it?" 

''Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle.  "I  have  been  privy 
to  no  application." 

"It  seems  they  want  to  make  out  that  Dick  never 
murdered  Hallijohn,"  proceeded  the  justice  in  a  half 
whisper,  glancing  around,  as  if  to  be  sure  there  were 
no  eavesdroppers  amidst  the  trees. 

'•Oh!"  said  Mr.  Carlyle. 


EAST  LYNNE  347 

**But  that  Levison  did.     Levison!" 

Mr.  Carlyle  made  no  reply,  save  by  gesture,  his  face 
more  impassive  than  before.  Not  so  another  face 
beside  him. 

*'But  it  can't  be,  you  know.     It  can't,  I  sa)^" 

"So  far  as  Richard's  innocence  goes,  of  that  I  have 
long  been  convinced,"  spoke  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"And  that  Levison's  guilty?"  returned  the  justice, 
opening  his  eyes  in  puzzled  wonderment. 

"I  give  no  opinion  upon  that  point,"  was  the  cold 
rejoinder. 

"It's  impossible,  I  say.  Dick  can't  be  innocent.  \ 
You  may  as  well  tell  me  the  world's  turned  upside  j 
down, ' ' 

"It  is  sometimes,  I  think.  That  Richard  was  not] 
the  guilty  man  will  be  proved  yet,  justice,  in  the  broadj 
face  of  day." 

"If-— if— that  other  did  do  it,  1  should  think  you'd 
take  the  warrant  out  of  the  hands  of  the  police  and 
capture  him  yourself." 

"I  would  not  touch  him  with  a  pair  of  tongs, "  spoke 
Mr.  Carlyle,  his  lip  curling  again.  "If  the  man  goes 
to  his  punishment,  he  goes;  but  I  do  not  help  him  on 
his  road  thither." 

"Can  Dick  be  innocent?"  mused  the  justice,  return- 
ing to  the  thought  which  so  troubled  his  mind.  "Then 
why  has  he  kept  away?" 

"That  you  might  not  deliver  him  up,  justice.  You 
know  you  took  an  oath  to  do  it." 

The  justice  looked  remarkably  humble. 

"Oh,  but,  Carlyle,"  impulsively  said  he,  the  thought 
occurring  to  him,  "what  an  awful  revenge  this  would 
have  been  for  you  on — somebody — had  she  lived.      How  / 
her  false  step  would  have  come  home  to  her  now!"  , 

' '  False_ste£s_  corne . Jiome  to  most  people, ' '  respond-  J 
ed  MrT'Carlyle,  as  he  took  William  by  the  hand,  who 
then  ran  up.     And,  lifting  his  hat  to  Mrs.  Hare  in  the 
distance,  he  walked  on. 

She,  Lady  Isabel,  walked  on  too,  by  the  side  of  the 
child,   as  before — walked  on   with  a  shivering  frame 


348  EAST  LYNNE 

and  a  heart  sickened  unto  death.  The  justice  looked 
after  them,  his  mind  preoccupied.  He  was  a  maze  of 
bewilderment.  Richard  innocent!  Richard  whom  he  had 
I  striven  to  pursue  to  a  shameful  end!  And  that  other 
'  the  guilty  one?     The  world  was  turning  upside  down. 


It 


CHAPTER  LII 

THE  ARREST 


On  the  day  of  nomination  West  Lynne  was  in  a 
fever  of  excitement.  Sir  Francis  and  Mr.  Drake  were 
conversing  together,  when  suddenly  Sir  Francis  felt 
his  arm  gripped  by  a  policeman  and  a  voice  rang  out: 
"Sir  Francis  Levison,  you  are  my  prisoner."  Noth- 
ing worse  than  debt  occurred  at  the  moment  to  the 
mind  of  Sir  Francis.  But  that  was  quite  enough,  and 
he  turned  purple  with  rage. 

'*Your  hands  off,  vermin!     How  dare  you?" 

A  quick  movement,  a  slight  click,  a  hustle  from  the 
wondering  crowd  more  immediately  around,  and  the 
handcuffs  were  on.  Utter  amazement  alone  prevented 
Mr.  Drake  from  knocking  down  the  policeman.  A 
dozen  vituperating  tongues  assailed  him.  "I'm  sorry 
to  do  it  in  this  public  place  and  manner,"  said  the 
officer,  partly  to  Sir  Francis,  partly  to  the  gentlemen 
around;  "but  I  couldn't  coiue  across  him  last  night, 
do  as  I  would.  And  the  warrant  has  been  in  my 
hands  since  five  o'clock  yesterday  afternoon.  Sir 
Francis  Levison,  I  arrest  you  for  the  wilful  murder  of 
George  Hallijohn. " 

The  crowd  fell  back,  paralyzed  with  consternation; 
the  word  was  passed  from  one  extreme  of  it  to  the 
other,  back  and  across  again,  and  the  excitement  grew 
high.  The  ladies  looking  from  Miss  Carlyle's  window 
saw  what  had  happened,  though  they  could  not  divine 
the  cause.  Some  of  them  turned  pale  at  the  sight  of 
the  handcuffs,  and  Mary  Pinner,  an  excitable  girl, 
screamed. 

Pale?      What  was  their  gentle  paleness,  compared 


EAST  LYNNE  349 

with  the  frightfully  livid  hue  that  disfigured  the  fea- 
tures of  Francis  Levison?  His  agitation  was  pitiable 
to  witness,  his  face  a  terror  to  look  upon.  Once  or 
twice  he  gasped  as  if  in  agony;  and  then  his  eyes  hap- 
pened to  fall  on  Otway  Bethel,  who  stood  near.  Shorn 
of  its  adornments — which  might  not  be  thought  adorn- 
ments on  paper — the  following  was  the  sentence  that 
burst  involuntarily  from  his  lips: 

"You  hound!     It  is  you  who  have  done  this!" 

"No!    b}^ "      Whether  Mr.    Otway   Bethel  was 

about  to  swear  by  Jupiter  or  Juno  never  was  decided, 
the  sentence  being  cut  ignominiously  short  at  the 
above  two  words.  Another  policeman,  in  the  sum- 
mary manner  exercised  toward  Sir  Francis,  had 
clapped  a  pair  of  handcuffs  upon  him. 

"Mr.  Otway  Bethel,  I  arrest  you  as  an  accomplice 
in  the  murder  of  George  Hallijohn." 

You  may  be  sure  the  whole  assembly  was  arrested 
too — figuratively — and  stood  with  eager  gaze  and  open 
ears.  Colonel  Bethel,  quitting  the  scarlet-and-purple 
ranks,  flashed  into  those  of  the  yellows.  He  knew  his 
nephew  was  graceless  enough ;  but — to  see  him  with  a 
pair  of  handcuffs  on! 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  he  demanded  of  the 
officers. 

"It's  no  fault  of  ours,  colonel;  we  have  but  executed 
the  warrant,"  answered  one  of  them.  "The  magis- 
trates issued  it  yesterday  against  these  two  gentlemen 
on  suspicion  of  their  being  concerned  in  the  murder  of 
Hallijohn." 

"In  conjunction  with  Richard  Hare?"  cried  the 
astounded  colonel,  gazing  from  one  to  the  other,  pris- 
oners and  officers,  in  scared  bewilderment. 

"It's  alleged  now  that  Richard  Hare  didn't  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it,"  returned  the  man.  "It's  said 
he  is  innocent.     I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"I  swear  that  I  am  innocent!"  passionately  uttered 
Otway  Bethel. 

"Well,  sir,  you  have  only  got  to  prove  it,"  civilly 
rejoined  the  policeman. 


350  EAST  LYNNE 


CHAPTER  LIII 

THE  JUSTICE-ROOM 

The  magistrates  took  their  seats  on  the  bench.     Tht, 
bench  would  not  hold  them ;  all  in  the  Commission  of 
the  Peace  flocked  in.       Any  other  day  they  would  not 
have  been  at  West  Lynne.     As  to  the  room,  the  won- 
der was  how  it  ever  got  emptied  again,  so  densely  was 
it  packed.       Sir  Francis  Levison's  friends  were  there 
in  a  body.     They  did  not  believe  a  word  of  the  accusa- 
tion.     A  scandalous  affair,   cried  they,  got  up,  prob- 
ably, by  some  of  the  scarlet-and-purple  party.     Lord 
Mount  Severn,   who  chose  to  be  present,  had  a  place 
assigned  him  on  the  bench.       Lord  Vane  got  the  best 
place  he  could  fight  for  amidst  the  crowd.     Mr.  Justice 
Hare  sat  as  chairman,  unusually  stern,  unbending  and 
grim.      No  favor  would  he  show,  but  no  unfairness. 
Had  it  been  to  save  his  son  from  hanging,  he  would 
not  adjudge  guilt  to  Francis  Levison  against  his  con- 
science.     Colonel  Bethel  was  likewise  on  the  bench, 
stern  also. 
^^   In  that  primitive  place — primitive  in  what  related  to 
^the   justice-room   and  the  justices — things    were  not 
jconducted  with  the  regularity  of  the  law.       The  law 
there  was  often  a  dead  letter.      No  very  grave  cases 
were  decided  there — they  went  to  Lynneborough.     A 
month  at  the  treadmill,  or  a  week's  imprisonment,  or 
a  bout  of  whipping  for  juveniles,  were  pretty  nearly 
^the  harshest  sentences  pronounced.     In  this  examina- 
nion,  as  in  others,   evidence  was  advanced  that  was 
I  inadmissible — at  least,  that  would  have  been  inadmis- 
(sible  in  a  more  orthodox  court;  hearsay  testimony  and 
jrregularities  of  that  nature.       Mr.   Rubiny   watched 
the  case  on  behalf  of  Sir  Francis  Levison. 

Mr.  Ball  opened  the  proceedings,  giving  the  account 
which  had  been  imparted  to  him  by  Richard  Hare,  but 


EAST  LYNNE  351 

not  mentioning  Richard  as  his  informant.      H^  was 
questioned  as  to  whence  he  obtained  his  information, 
but  replied  that  it  was  not  convenient,  at  present,  to 
disclose  the  source.     The  stumbling-block  to  the  mag-\ 
istrates  appeared  to  be  the  identifying  Levison  with)*^ 
Thorn.     Ebenezer  James  came  forward  to  prove  it.    / 

"What  do  you  know  of  the  prisoner,  Sir  Francis 
Levison?"  questioned  Justice  Herbert. 

"Not  much,"  responded  Mr.  Ebenezer.  "I  used  to 
know  him  as  Captain  Thorn." 

"Captain  Thorn?" 

"Afy  Hallijohn  called  him  captain;  but  I  understood 
he  was  but  a  lieutenant." 

"From  whom  did  you  understand  that?" 

"From  Afy.  She  was  the  only  person  I  heard  speak 
of  him." 

"And  you  say  you  were  in  the  habit  of  seeing  him 
in  the  place  mentioned,  the  Abbey  Wood?" 

"I  saw  him  there  repeatedly;  also  at  Hallijohn's 
cottage. " 

"Did  you  speak  with  him^as  Thorn?" 

"Two  or  three  times.  I  addressed  him  as  Thorn, 
and  he  answered  to  the  name.  I  had  no  suspicion  but 
what  it  was  his  name.  Otway  Bethel" — casting  his 
eyes  on  Mr.  Otway,  who  stood  in  his  shaggy  attire — 
"also  knew  him  as  Thorn;  and  so,  I  make  no  doubt, 
did  Locksley,  for  he  was  always  in  the  wood." 

"Anybody  else?" 

"Poor  Hallijohn  himself  knew  him  as  Thorn.  He 
said  to  Afy  one  day,  in  my  presence,  that  he  would 
not  have  that  confounded  dandy.  Thorn,  coming 
there." 

"Were  those  the  words  he  used?" 

"They  were.  *That  confounded  dandy,  Thorn!'  I 
remember  Afy's  reply;  it  was  rather  insolent.  She 
said  Thorn  was  as  free  to  come  there  as  anybody  else; 
and  she  would  not  be  found  fault  with,  as  though  she 
was  not  fit  to  take  care  of  herself." 

"That  is  nothing  to  the  purpose.  Were  any  others 
acquainted  with  this  Thorn?" 


I 


352  EAST  LYNNE 

'*I  should  imagine  the  elder  sister,  Joyce,  was.  And 
the  one  who  knew  him  best  of  all  was  young  Richard 
Hare." 

Old  Richard  Hare,  from  his  place  on  the  bench, 
frowned  menacingly  at  an  imaginary  Richard. 

''What  took  Thorn  into  the  woods  so  often?" 

"He  was  courting  Afy?" 

"With  an  intention  of  marrying  her?" 

"Well — no,"  cried  Mr.  Ebenezer,  with  a  twist  of  the 
mouth;  "I  should  not  suppose  he  entertained  any 
intention  of  that  sort.  He  used  to  come  over  from. 
Swainson,  or  its  neighborhood,  riding  a  splendid 
horse." 

"Whom  did  you  suppose  him  to  be?" 

"I  supposed  him  to  be  moving  in  the  upper  ranks  of 
life.  There  was  no  doubt  of  it.  His  dress,  his  man- 
ners, his  tone,  all  proclaimed  it.  He  appeared  to  wish 
to  shun  observation,  and  evidently  did  not  care  to  be 
seen.      He  rarely  arrived  until  twilight." 

"Did  you  see  him  there  on  the  night  of  Hallijohns 
murder?" 

"No.  I  was  not  there  myself  that  evening,  so  could 
not  have  seen  him." 

"Did  a  suspicion  cross  your  mind  at  any  time  that 
he  may  have  been  guilty  of  the  murder?" 

"Never.  Richard  Hare  was  accused  of  it,  and  it 
never  occurred  to  me  to  suppose  that  he  had  not 
done  it." 

"Pray,  how  many  years  is  this  ago?"  sharply  inter- 
rupted Mr.  Rubiny,  perceiving  that  the  witness  was 
done  with. 

"Let's  see!"  responded  Mr.  Ebenezer.  "I  can't  be 
sure  as  to  a  year  without  reckoning  up.  A  dozen,  if 
not  more." 

"And  you  mean  to  say  that  you  can  swear  to  Sir 
Francis  Levison  being  that  man — with  all  those  years 
intervening?" 

"I  swear  that  he  is  the  same  man.  I..ani,aa.^ositive 
of  his  identity  as  I  am  of  my  own." 

"Without  having  seen  him  from  that  time  to  this?" 


EAST  LYNNli  353 

derisively    returned    the    lawyer.      * 'Nonsense,    wit- 
ness!" 

*'I  did  not  say  that,"  returned  Mr.  Ebenezer. 

The  court  pricked  up  its  ears.  **Have  you  seen  him 
between  then  and  now?"  asked  one  of  them. 

"Once." 

''Where,  and  when?" 

"It  was  in  London.  About  eighteen  months  after 
the  period  of  the  murder." 

"What  communication  had  you  with  him?" 

"None  at  all.     I  only  saw  him.     Quite  by  chance." 

"And  whom  did  you  suppose  him  to  be — Thorn — or 
Levison?" 

"Thorn,  certainly.  I  never  dreamt  of  his  being 
Levison  until  he  appeared  here  now  to  oppose  Mr. 
Carlyle." 

A  wild,  savage  curse  shot  through  Sir  Francis'  heart 
as  he  heard  the  words.  What  demon  had  possessed 
him  to  venture  his  neck  into  the  lion's  den?  There 
had  been  a  strong,  hidden  power  holding  him  back 
from  it,  independent  of  his  dislike  to  face  Mr.  Carlyle. 
How  could  he  have  been  so  mad  as  to  disregard  it? 
How?  X 

"You  may  have  been  mistaken,  witness,  as  to  the  / 
identity  of  the  man  you  saw  in  London.  It  may  not 
have  been  the  Thorn  you  had  known  here."  Mr. 
Ebenezer  James  smiled  a  peculiar  smile.  "I  was  not 
mistaken,"  he  said,  his  tone  sounding  remarkably 
significant.     "I  am  upon  my  oath." 

"Call  Aphrodite  Hallijohn." 

The  lady  appeared,  supported  by  her  friend  the 
policeman,  and  Mr.  Ebenezer  James  was  desired  by 
Mr.  Ball  to  leave  the  court  while  she  gave  her  evi- 
dence.    Doubtless  he  had  his  reasons. 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Afy, "  replied  she,  looking  daggers  at  everybody 
and  sedulously  keeping  her  back  turned  upon  Francis 
Levison  and  Otway  Bethel. 

"Your  name  in  full,  if  you  please.  You  were  not 
christened  *Afy'?" 

23  Lynne 


354  EAST  LYNNE 

**  Aphrodite  Hallijohn.  You  all  know  my  name  as 
well  as  I  do.  Where's  the  use  of  asking  useless  ques- 
tions?" 

"Swear  the  witness,"  said  Mr.  Justice  Hare. 

"I  won't  be  sworn,"  said  Afy. 

"You  must  be  sworn,"  said  Mr.  Justice  Herbert. 

"But  I  say  I  won't,"  repeated  Afy. 

"Then  we  must  commit  you  to  prison  for  contempt 
of  court." 

There  was  no  mercy  in  his  tone,  and  Afy  turned 
white.  Sir  John  Dobede  interposed.  "Young  woman, 
had  you  a  hand  in  the  murder  of  your  father?" 

"I?"  returned  Afy,  struggling  with  passion,  temper 
and  excitement.  "How  dare  you  ask  me  so  unnatural 
a' question,  sir?  He  was  the  kindest  father!"  she 
added,  battling  with  her  tears.  "And  I  loved  him 
dearly.     I  would  have  saved  his  life  with  mine. ' ' 

"And  yet  you  refuse  to  give  evidence  that  may  assist 
in  bringing  his  destroyer  to  justice!" 

"No,  1  don't  refuse  on  that  score.  1  should  like  his 
destroyer  to  be  hanged,  and  I'd  go  to  see  it.  But  who 
knows  what  other  questions  you  may  be  asking  me — 
about  things  that  concern  neither  you  nor  anybody 
else?     That's  why  I  object. " 

"We  have  only  to  deal  with  what  bears  upon  the 
murder.  The  questions  put  to  you  will  relate  to 
that." 

Afy  considered.  "Well,  you  may  sv^^ear  me,  then," 
she  said.  Little  notion  had  she  of  the  broad  gauge 
those  questions  would  run  upon.  And  she  was  sworn 
accordingly.  Very  unwillingly  yet.  For  Afy,  who 
would  have  told  lies  by  the  bushel  unsworn,  did  look 
upon  an  oath  as  a  serious  matter,  and  felt  herself 
compelled  to  speak  the  truth  when  examined  under  it. 

"How  did  you  become  acquainted  with  a  gentleman 
you  often  saw  in  those  days — Captain  Thorn?" 

"There!"  uttered  the  dismayed  Afy.  "You  are 
beginning  already.  He  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
He  did  not  do  the  murder. " 

"You  have  sworn  to  answer  the  question  put,"  was 


EAST  LYNNE  355 

the  uncompromising  rejoinder.  ' '  How  did  you  become 
acquainted  with  Captain  Thorn?" 

"I  met  him  at  Swainson,"  doggedly  answered  Afy. 
'*I  went  over  there  one  day  just  for  a  spree,  and  I  met 
him  at  the  pastry-cook's." 

"And  he  fell  in  love  with  your  pretty  face?"  said 
Lawyer  Ball,  taking  up  the  examination. 

In  the  incense  to  her  vanity,  Afy  forgot  her 
scruples. 

"Yes,  he  did,"  she  answered,  casting  a  smile  of 
general  fascination  round  upon  the  court. 

"And  got  out  of  you  where  you  lived  and  entered 
upon  his  courting;  riding  over  nearly  every  evening 
to  see  you?" 

"Well,"  acknowledged  Afy,  "there  was  no  harm  in 
it." 

"Oh,  certainly  not,"  acquiesced  the  lawyer,  in  a 
pleasant,  free  tone,  to  put  the  witness  at  her  ease. 
"Rather  good,  I  should  say;  I  wish  I  had  had  the  like 
luck.  Did  you  know  him  at  that  time  by  the  name  of 
Levison?" 

"No.  He  said  he  was  Captain  Thorn,  and  I  thought 
he  was." 

"Did  you  know  where  he  lived?" 

**No.  He  never  said  that.  I  thought  he  was  stop- 
ping temporarily  at  Swainson." 

"And — dear  me,  what  a  sweet  bonnet  that  is  you 
have  on!" 

Afy — whose  egregious  vanity  was  her  besetting  sin, 
who  possessed  enough  of  it  for  any  ten  pretty  women 
going — cast  a  glance  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes  at 
the  admired  bonnet,  and  became  Mr.  Ball's  entirely. 

"And  how  long  was  it,  after  your  first  meeting  with 
him,  before  you  discovered  his  real  name?" 

"Not  for  a  long  time.     Several  months." 

"Subsequently  to  the  murder,  I  presume?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

Mr.  Ball's  eyes  gave  a  twinkle,  and  the  unconscious 
Afy  surreptitiously  smoothed,  with  one  finger,  the 
glossy  parting  of  her  hair. 


356  EAST  LYNNE 

** Besides  Captain  Thorn,  what  gentlemen  were  in 
the  wood  the  night  of  the  murder?" 

"Richard  Hare  was  there.  Otway  Bethel  and  Locks- 
ley  also.   Those  were  all  I  saw — until  the  crowd  came." 

"Were  Locksley  and  Mr.  Otway  Bethel  martyrs  to 
your  charms — as  the  other  two  were?" 

"No,  indeed!"  was  the  witness'  answer,  with  an 
indignant  toss  of  the  head.  "A  couple  of  poaching 
fellows  like  them!    They  had  better  have  tried  it  on!" 

* 'Which  of  the  two,  Hare  or  Thorn,  was  inside  the 
cottage  with  you  that  evening?" 

Afy  came  out  of  her  vanity  and  hesitated.  She  was 
beginning  to  wonder  where  the  questions  would 
get  to. 

"You  are  upon  your  oath,  witness!"  thundered  Mr. 
Justice  Hare.  "If  it  was  my — if  it  was  Richard  Hare 
who  was  with  you,  say  so.  But  there  must  be  no 
equivocation  here." 

Afy  was  startled.  "It  was  Thorn,"  she  answered  to 
Mr.  Ball. 

"And  where  was  Richard  Hare?" 

"I  don't  know.  He  came  down,  out  X  sent  him 
away;  I  would  not  admit  him.  I  dare  say  he  lingered 
in  the  wood." 

"Did  he  leave  a  gun  with  you?" 

"Yes.  It  was  one  he  had  promised  to  lend  my 
father.  I  put  it  down  just  inside  the  door;  he  told  me 
it  was  loaded. " 

"How  long  after  this  was  it  before  your  father  inter- 
rupted you?" 

"He  didn't  interrupt  us  at  all,"  returned  Afy.  "I 
never  saw  my  father  until  I  saw  him  dead." 

"Were  you  not  in  the  cottage  all  the  time?" 

"No.  We  went  out  for  a  stroll  at  the  back.  Cap- 
tain Thorn  wished  me  good-by  there,  and  1  stayed 
out." 

"Did  you  hear  the  gun  go  off. " 

"I  heard  a  shot  as  I  was  sitting  on  the  stump  of  a 
tree  and  thinking.  But  I  attached  no  importance  to 
it,  never  supposing  it  was  in  the  cottage." 


EAST  LYNNE  357 

**What  was  it  that  Captain  Thorn  had  to  get  from 
the  cottage  after  he  quitted  you?  What  had  he  left 
there?" 

Now  this  was  a  random  shaft.  Lawyer  Ball,  a  keen 
man,  who  had  well  weighed  all  points  in  the  tale 
imparted  to  him  by  Richard  Hare,  as  well  as  other 
points,  had  made  his  own  deductions,  and  spoke  accord- 
ingly.    Afy  was  taken  in. 

"He  had  left  his  hat  there;  nothing  else.  It  was  a 
warm  evening,  and  he  had  gone  out  without  it." 

"He  told  you,  I  believe,  sufficient  to  convince  you 
of  the  guilt  of  Richard  Hare?"  Another  shaft  at 
random. 

"I  did  not  want  convincing.  I  knew  it  without. 
Everybody  else  knew  it." 

"To  be  sure,"  equably  returned  Lawyer  Ball.  "Did 
Captain  Thorn  see  it  done? — did  he  tell  you  that?" 

"He  had  got  his  hat  and  was  away  down  the  wood 
some  little  distance  when  he  heard  voices  in  dispute  in 
the  cottage,  and  recognized  one  of  them  to  be  that  of 
my  father.  The  shot  followed  close  upon  it,  and  he 
guessed  some  mischief  had  been  done,  though  he  did 
not  suspect  its  extent." 

"Thorn  told  you  this!     When?" 

"The  same  night;  much  later." 

"How  came  you  to  see  him?" 

Afy  hesitated.  But  she  was  sternly  told  to  answer 
the  question. 

"A  boy  came  up  to  the  cottage  and  called  me  out, 
and  said  a  strange  gentleman  wanted  to  see  me  in  the 
wood,  and  had  given  him  sixpence  to  come  for  me.  I 
went  out,  and  found  Captain  Thorn.  He  asked  what 
the  commotion  was  about,  and  I  told  him  Richard  Hare 
had  killed  my  father.  He  said  that,  now  I  spoke  of 
him,  he  could  recognize  Richard  Hare's  as  having 
been  the  other  voice  in  the  dispute." 

"What  boy  was  that — the  one  who  came  for  you?" 

"It  was  Mother  Whiteman's  little  son." 

''And  Captain  Thorn  then  gave  you  this  version  oi 
the  tragedy?" 


358  EAST  LYNNE 

'*It  was  the  right  version,"  resentfully  spoke  Afy. 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

*'Oh,  because  I'm  sure  it  was.  Who  else  would  kill 
him  but  Richard  Hare?  It  is  a  scandalous  shame, 
your  wanting  to  put  it  upon  Thorn." 

"Look  at  the  prisoner.  Sir  Francis  Levison.  Is  it 
he  whom  you  knew  as  Thorn?" 

"Yes.  But  that  does  not  make  him  guilty  of  the 
murder." 

"Of  course  it  does  not,"  complacently  assented 
Lawyer  Ball.  "How  long  did  you  remain  with  Cap- 
tain Thorn  in  London — upon  that  liftle  visit,  you 
know?" 

Afy  stared  like  anybody  moonstruck. 

"When  you  quitted  this  place  after  the  tragedy  it 
was  to  join  Captain  Thorn  in  London.  How  long,  I 
ask,  did  you  remain  with  him?"  Entirely  a  random 
shaft,  this. 

"Who  says  I  was  with  him?  Who  says  I  went  after 
him?"  flashed  Afy,  with  scarlet  cheeks. 

"I  do, "  replied  Lawyer  Ball,  taking  notes  of  her 
confusion.  "Come,  it's  over  and  done  with;  it's  no 
use  to  deny  it  now.  We  all  go  upon  visits  to  friends 
sometimes." 

"1  never  heard  anything  so  bold!"  cried  Afy. 
"Where  will  you  tell  me  I  went  next?" 

"You  are  upon  your  oath,  woman!"  again  inter- 
posed Justice  Hare,  and  a  trembling,  as  of  agitation, 
might  be  detected  in  his  voice,  in  spite  of  its  ringing 
severity.  "Were  you  with  the  prisoner,  Levison,  or 
were  you  with  Richard  Hare?" 

"I  with  Richard  Hare!"  cried  Afy,  agitated  in  her 
turn,  and  shaking  like  an  aspen  leaf,  partly  with  dis- 
comfiture, partly  with  an  unknown  dread.  "How  dare 
that  cruel  falsehood  be  brought  up  again  to  my  face? 
I  never  saw  Richard  Hare  after  the  night  of  the  mur- 
der. I  swear  it.  I  swear  that  I  have  never  seen  him 
since.  Visit  him!  I'd  sooner  visit  Calcraft,  the  hang- 
man." 

There  was  truth  in  the  words,  in  the  tone.     The 


EAST  LYNNE  359 

chairman  let  fall  the  hand  which  had  been  raised  to 
his  face,  holding  on  his  eye-glasses,  and  a  sort  of  self- 
condemning  fear  arose,  confusing  his  brain.  His  son 
proved  innocent  of  one  part  might  be  proved  innocent 
of  the  other,  and  then  how  would  his  own  harsh  con- 
duct show  out?  West  Lynne,  in  its  charity,  the  jus- 
tice, in  his,  had  cast  more  odium  to  Richard  with 
regard  to  his  after  conduct  touching  this  girl,  than  it 
had  on  the  score  of  the  murder. 

"Come,"  said  Lawyer  Ball,  in  a  coaxing  tone,  "let 
us  be  pleasant.  Of  course  you  were  not  with  Richard 
Hare;  West  Lynne  is  always  ill-natured;  you  were  only 
on  a  visit  to  Captain  Thorn,  as — as  any  other  young 
lady  might  be?" 

Afy  hung  her  head,  cowed  down  to  abject  meekness. 

"Answer  the  question,"  came  forth  the  chairman's 
voice  again. 

"Were  you  with  Thorn?" 

"Yes."     Though  the  answer  was  feeble  enough. 

Mr.  Ball  coughed  an  insinuating  cough.  "Did  you 
remain  with  him — say,  two  or  three  years?" 

"Not  three." 

"A  little  over  two,  perhaps?" 

"There  was  no  harm  in  it!"  shrieked  Afy,  with  a 
catching  sob  of  temper.  "If  I  chose  to  live  in  London, 
and  he  chose  to  make  a  morning  call  upon  me  now 
and  then,  as  an  old  friend,  what's  that  to  anybody? 
Where  v/as  the  harm,  1  ask?" 

"Certainly — where  was  the  harm?    I  am  not  insinu- 
ating any,"  returned  Lawyer  Ball,  with  a  wink  of  the 
eye  furthest  from  the  witness  and  the  bench.     "And, 
during  the  time  that — that  he  was  making  these  little    r 
morning  calls  upon  you,  did  you  know  him  to  be  Levi-y 
son?" 

"Yes.    I  knew  him  to  be  Captain  Levison,  then." 

"Did  he  ever  tell  you  why  he  had  assumed  the  name 
of  Thorn?"  ■ 

"Only  for  a  whim,  he  said.  The  day  he  spoke  to  me  ', 
in   fhe  pastry-cook's  shop    at    Swainson,    something 
came  over  him,  in  the  spur  of  the  moment,  not  to  give    , 


\ 


360  EAST  LYNNE 

/his  right  name,  so  he  gave  the  first  that  came  into  his 
I  head.  He  never  thought  to  retain  it,  or  that  other 
I  people  would  hear  of  him  by  it." 

"I  dare  say  not,"  said  Lawyer  Ball,  dryly.  "Well, 
Miss  Afy,  1  believe  that  is  all  for  the  present.  I  want 
Ebenezer  James  in  again,"  he  whispered  to  an  officer 
of  the  justice-room,  as  the  witness  retired. 


CHAPTER  LIV 

COMMITTED 

Ebenezer  James  reappeared  and  took  Afy's  place. 
"You  informed  their  worships  just  now  that  you  had 
met  Thorn  in  London,  some  eighteen  months  subse- 
quent to  the  murder,"  began  Lawyer  Ball,  launching 
another  of  his  shafts.  "This  must  have  been  during 
Afy  H  alii  John's  sojourn  with  him.  Did  you  also  see 
her?" 

Mr.  Ebenezer  opened  his  eyes.  He  knew^nothing 
of  the  evidence  just  given  by  Afy,  and  wondered  how 
on  earth  it  had  come  out — that  she  had  been  with 
Thorn  at  all.  He  had  never  betrayed  it.  "Afy?" 
stammered  he. 

"Yes,  Afy,"  sharply  returned  the  lawyer.  "Their 
worships  know  that  when  she  left  West  Lynne  it  was 
to  join  Thorn,  not  Richard  Hare — though  the  latter  has 
borne  the  credit  of  it.  I  ask  you,  did  you  see  her?  for 
she  was  then  still  connected  with  him." 

"Well — yes,  1  did,"  replied  Mr.  Ebenezer,  his  own 
scruples  removed,  but  wondering  still  how  it  had  been 
discovered,  unless  Afy  had,  as  he  had  half  prophesied 
she  would — let  it  out  in  her  "tantrums."  "In  fact,  it 
was  Afy  whom  I  first  saw." 

"State  the  circumstances." 

"I  was  up  Paddington  way  one  afternoon,  and  saw 
a  lady  going  into  a  house.  It  was  Afy  Hallijohn. 
She  lived  there,  I  found — had  the  drawing-room  apart- 
ments. She  invited  me  to  stay  to  tea  with  her,  and  I 
did." 


EAST  LYNNE  361 

**Did  you  see  Captain  Levison  there?" 

*'I  saw  Thorn — as  I  thought  him  to  be.  Afy  told 
me  I  must  be  away  by  eight  o'clock,  for  she  was 
expecting  a  friend,  who  sometimes  came  to  sit  with 
her  for  an  hour's  chat.  But,  in  talking  over  old  times 
— not  that  I  could  tell  her  much  about  West  Lynne,  for 
I  had  left  it  almost  as  long  as  she  had — the  time 
slipped  on,  past  the  hour.  When  Afy  found  that  out, 
she  hurried  me  off,  and  I  had  barely  got  outside  the 
gate  when  a  cab  drove  up  and  Thorn  alighted  from  it, 
and  let  himself  in  with  a  latch-key.  That  is  all  I 
know." 

"When  you  knew  that  the  scandal  of  Afy's  absence 
rested  on  Richard  Hare,  why  could  you  not  have  said 
this,  and  cleared  him  on  your  return  to  West  Lynne?" 

"It  was  no  affair  of  mine,  that  I  should  make  it 
public.  Afy  asked  me  not  to  say  I  had  seen  her.  and 
I  promised  her  1  would  not.  As  to  Richard  Hare — a 
little  extra  scandal  on  his  back  was  nothing,  while 
there  remained  on  it  the  worse  scandal  of  the  murder. ' ' 

"Stop  a  bit,"  interposed  Mr.  Rubiny,  as  the  witness 
was  about  to  retire.  "You  speak  of  the  time  being 
eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  sir.     Was  it  dark?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  how  could  you  be  certain  it  was  Thorn  who 
got  out  of  the  cab  and  entered?" 

"I  am   quite  certain.     There  was  a  gas  lamp  right 
at  the   spot,  and  I  saw  him  as  well  as  I  should   have 
seen  him  in  daylight.      I  knew  his  voice,  too;   could 
have  sworn  to  it  anywhere ;  and  I  could  almost  have  j 
sworn  to  him  by  his  splendid  diamond  ring.    It  flashed) 
in  the  lamplight." 

"His  voice!     Did  he  speak  to  you?" 

"No.  But  he  spoke  to  the  cabman.  There  was  a  half 
dispute  between  them.  The  man  said  Thorn  had  not 
paid  him  enough;  that  he  had  not  allowed  for  the  hav- 
ing kept  him  waiting  twenty  minutes  on  the  road. 
Thorn  swore  at  him  a  bit,  and  then  flung  him  an  extra 
shilling/' 

The  next  witness  was  a  man  who  had  been  groom 


362  EAST  LYNNE 

to  the  late  Sir  Peter  Levison.  He  testified  that  the 
prisoner,  Francis  Levison,  had  been  on  a  visit  to  his 
master  late  in  the  summer  and  part  of  the  autumn  the 
year  that  Hallijohn  was  killed.  That  he  frequently 
rode  out  in  the  direction  of  West  Lynne,  especially 
toward  evening;  would  be  away  for  three  or  four 
hours,  and  come  home  with  the  horse  in  a  foam. 
Also  that  he  picked  up  two  letters  at  different  times, 
which  Mr.  Levison  had  carelessly  let  fall  from  his 
pocket,  and  returned  them  to  him.  Both  the  notes 
were  addressed  "Captain  Thorn."  But  they  had  not 
been  through  the  post,  for  there  was  no  further  super- 
scription on  them,  and  the  writing  looked  like  a  lady's. 
He  remembered  quite  well  hearing  of  the  murder  of 
Hallijohn,  the  witness  added,  in  answer  to  a. question; 
it  made  a  great  stir  throughout  the  country.  It  was 
just  at  that  same  time  that  Mr.  Levison  concluded  his 
visit  and  returned  to  London. 

"A  wonderful  memory!"  Mr.  Rubiny  sarcastically 
remarked. 

The  witness,  a  quiet,  respectable  man,  replied  that 
he  had  a  good  memory,  but  that  circumstances  had 
impressed  upon  it  particularly  the  fact  that  Mr.  Levi- 
son's  departure  followed  close  upon  the  murder  of 
Hallijohn. 

"What  circumstances?"  demanded  the  bench. 

"One  day,  when  Sir  Peter  was  round  at  the  stables, 
gentlemen,  he  was  urging  his  nephew  to  prolong  his 
visit,  and  asked  what  sudden  freak  was  taking  him  off. 
Mr.  Levison  replied  that  unexpected  business  called 
him  to  London.  While  they  were  talking  the  coach- 
man came  up,  all  in  a  heat,  telling  that  Hallijohn,  of 
West  Lynne,  had  been  murdered  by  young  Mr.  Hare. 
I  remember  Sir  Peter  said  he  could  not  believe  it,  and 
that  it  must  have  been  an  accident,  not  murder." 

"Is  this  all?" 

"There  was  more  said.  Mr.  Levison,  in  a  shame- 
faced sort  of  manner,  asked  his  uncle  would  he  let  him 
have  five  or  ten  pounds?  Sir  Peter  seemed  angry,  and 
asked  what  had  he  done  with  the  fifty-pound  note  he 


EAST  LYNNE 

had  made  him  a  present  of  only  the  previous  morning! 
Mr.  Levison  replied  that  he  had  sent  that  away  in  a 
letter  to  a  brother  officer  to  whom  he  was  in  debt.  Sir 
Peter  refused  to  believe  it,  and  said  he  was  more  likely 
to  have  squandered  it  upon  some  disgraceful  folly. 
Mr.  Levison  denied  that  he  had,  but  he  looked  con- 
fused; indeed,  his  manner  was  altogether  confused  that 
morning." 

"Did  he  get  the  five  or  ten  pounds?" 

"I  don't  know,  gentlemen.  I  dare  say  he  did,  for 
my  master  was  as  persuadable  as  a  woman,  though  he'd 
fly  out  a  bit  sometimes  at  first.  Mr.  Levison  departed 
for  London  that  same  night." 

The  last  witness  called  was  Mr.  Dill.  On  the  previ- 
ous Tuesday  evening  he  had  been  returning  home 
from  spending  an  hour  at  Mr.  Beauchamp's,  when,  in 
the  field  opposite  to  Mr.  Justice  Hare's,  he  suddenly 
heard  a  commotion.  It  arose  from  the  meeting  of  Sir 
Francis  Levison  and  Otway  Bethel.  The  former 
appeared  to  have  been  enjoying  a  solitary  moonlight 
ramble,  and  the  latter  to  have  encountered  him  unex- 
pectedly. Words  ensued.  Bethel  accused  Sir  Francis 
of  "shirking"  him ;  Sir  Francis  answered  angrily — that 
he  knew  nothing  of  him,  and  nothing  he  wanted  to 
know. 

"You  were  glad  enough  to  know  something  of  me 
the  night  of  Hallijohn's  murder, "  retorted  Bethel  to 
this.  "Do  you  remember  that  I  could  hang  you?  One 
little  word  from  me,  and  you  would  stand  in  Dick 
Hare's  place. " 

"You  fool!"  passionately  cried  Sir  Francis.  "You 
could  not  hang  me  without  putting  your  own  head  in 
the  noose.  Had  you  not  your  hush-money?  Are  you 
wanting  to  do  me  out  of  more?" 

"A  cursed  paltry  note  of  fifty  pounds!"  foamed 
Otway  Bethel,  "which,  many  a  time  since,  I  have 
wished  my  fingers  had  been  blown  off  before  they 
touched.  I  never  should  have  touched  it,  but  that  I 
was  altogether  overwhelmed  with  the  moment's  con- 
fusion.   I  have  not  been  able  to  look  Mrs.  Hare  in  the 


)k 


364  EAST  LYNNE 

face  since — knowing  I  hold  the  secret  that  would  save 
her  son  from  the  hangman." 

"And  put3^ourself  in  his  place,"  sneered  Sir  Francis. 

''No.    'Put  you." 

''That's  as  it  might  be.  But  if  I  went  to  the  hang- 
man you  would  go  with  me.  There  Avould  be  no 
excuse  or  escape  for  you.     You  know  it." 

The  warfare  continued  longer,  but  this  was  the 
cream  of  it.  Mr,  Dill  heard  the  whole,  and  repeated 
it  now  to  the  magistrates.  Mr.  Rubiny  protested  that 
it  was  "inadmissible;"  "hearsay  evidence;"  "contrary 
to  law;"  but  the  bench  oracularly  put  Mr.  Rubiny 
down,  and  told  him  they  did  not  require  any  stranger 
to  come  there  and  teach  them  their  business. 

Colonel  Bethel  had  leaned  forward  at  the  conclusion 
of  Mr.  Dill's  evidence,  dismay  on  his  face,  agitation  in 
his  voice.  "Are  you  sure  that  3'ou  made  no  mis- 
take?— that  the  other  in  this  interview  was  Otway 
Bethel?" 

Mr.  Dill  sadly  shook  his  head.  "Am  I  one  to  swear 
to  a  wrong  man,  colonel?  I  wish  I  had  not  heard  it — 
save  that  it  may  be  the  means  of  clearing  Richard 
Hare." 

~  Sir  Francis  Levison  had  braved  out  the  proceedings 
with  a  haughty,  cavalier  air,  his  delicate  hands  and  his 
diamond  ring  remarkably  conspicuous.  Was  that  stone 
the  real  thing,  or  a  false  one  substituted  for  the  real? 
Hard  up  as  he  had  long  been  for  money,  the  suspicion 
might  arise.  A  derisive  sm.ile  crossed  his  features  at 
parts  of  the  evidence,  as  much  as  to  say,  you  may  con- 
vict me  as  to  Mademoiselle  Afy;  but  you  cannot  as  to 
the  murder.  When,  however,  Mr.  Dill's  testimony 
was  given,  what  a  change  was  there!  His  mood  tamed 
down  to  what  looked  like  abject  fear. 

"Of  course  your  worship  will  take  bail  for  Sir  Fran- 
cis," said  Mr.  Rubiny,  at  the  close  of  the  proceedings. 

Bail!     The  bench  looked  at  one  another. 

"Your  worship  will  not  refuse  it— A_gentjeman  in 
Sir  Francis  Levison's  position  I"  The  bench  thought 
they  had  never  had  so  insolent  an  application  made  to 


EAST  LYNNE  365 

them.     Bail  for  him! — on  this  charge!     No;  not  if  the 
lord  chancellor  himself  came  down  to  offer  it. 

Mr.  Otway  Bethel,  conscious,  probably,  that  nobody 
would  offer  bail  for  him,  not  even  the  colonel,  did  not 
ask  the  bench  to  take  it.  So  the  two  were  fully  com- 
mitted to  take  their  trial  for  the  "wilful  murder, 
otherwise  the  killing  and  slaying,  of  George  Halli- 
john. " 


CHAPTER  LV 

THE  TRIAL 

At  the  assizes  the  same  evidence  was  taken.  Then 
the  counsel  for  the  prosecution  rose  and  said:  "Call 
Richard  Hare." 

Those  present  who  knew   Mr.  Justice  Hare  looked 
up  at  him,  wondering  why  he  did  not  stir  in  answer  to 
his  name ;   wondering  at  the  pallid  hue  which  over- 
spread his  face.     Not  he,  but  another  man,  came  for- 
ward; a  fair,  placid  young  man,  with  blue  eyes,  fair 
hair  and  a  pleasant  countenance.      It  was    Richard 
Hare,  the  younger.   He  had  resumed  his  original  posi-] 
tion  in  life,  so  far  as  attire  went,  and  in  that,  at  least,  i 
was  a  gentleman   again;  in   speech   also.      With   his] 
working  dress  Richard  had  thrown  off  his  working  ' 
manners. 

A  strange  hubbub  arose  in  court.  Richard  Hare  the 
exile!  the  reported  dead;  the  man  whose  life  was  still 
in  jeopardy!  The  spectators  rose  with  one  accord  to 
get  a  better  view;  they  stood  on  tiptoe;  they  pushed 
forth  their  necks;  they  strained  their  eyesight;  and 
amidst  all  the  noisy  hum,  the  groan,  bursting  from 
the  lips  of  Justice  Hare,  was  unnoticed.  Whilst  order 
was  called  for,  and  the  judge  threatened  to  clear  the 
court,  two  officers  moved  quietly  up  and  stood  behind 
the  witness.  Richard  Hare  was  in  custody,  though 
he  might  know  it  not.     The  witness  was  sworn. 

"What  is  your  name?" 


36G  EAST  LYNNE 

"Richard  Hare." 

"Son  of  Mr.  Justice  Hare,  I  believe,  of  the  Grove, 
West  Lynne?" 

"His  only  son." 

"The  same  against  whom  a  verdict  of  wilful  murder 
is  out?"  interposed  the  judge. 

"The  same,  my  lord,"  replied  Richard  Hare,  who 
appeared,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  to  have  cast  away 
all  his  old  fearfulness. 

"Then,  witness,  let  me  warn  you  that  you  are  not 
obliged  to  answer  any  question  that  might  tend  to 
criminate  yourself." 

"My  lord,"  answered  Richard  Hare,  with  some  emo- 
tion, "I  wish  to  answer  any  and  every  question  put  to 
me.  I  have  but  one  hope ;  that  the  full  truth  of  all 
pertaining  to  that  fatal  evening  may  be  made  manifest 
this  day." 

"Look  round  at  the  prisoner,"  said  the  examining 
counsel.     "Do  you  know  him?" 

"I  know  him  now  as  Sir  Francis  Levison.  Up  to 
A-pril  last  I  believed  his  name  to  be  Thorn." 

"State  what  occurred  on  the  evening  of  that  murder 
—so  far  as  your  knowledge  goes. " 

"I  had  an  appointment  that  evening  with  Afy  Hal- 
lijohn,  and  went  down  to  their  cottage  to  keep  it " 

"A  moment,"  interrupted  the  counsel.  "Was  your 
visit  that  evening  made  in  secret?" 

"Partially  so.  My  father  and  mother  were  dis- 
pleased at  my  intimacy  with  Afy  Hallijohn ;  therefore 
I  did  not  care  that  they  should  be  cognizant  of  my 
visits  there.  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  that  I  told  my 
father  a  lie  over  it  that  evening.  He  saw  me  leave 
the  dinner- table  to  go  out  with  my  gun,  and  inquired 
where  I  was  off  to.  I  answered  that  I  was  going  out 
with  young  Beauchamp. " 

"When,  in  point  of  fact,  you  were  not?" 

"No.  I  took  my  gun,  for  I  had  promised  to  lend  it 
to  Hallijohn  while  his  own  was  being  repaired.  When 
I  reached  the  cottage  Afy  refused  to  admit  me;  sho 
was  busy,  she   said.      I   felt  sure  she  had  Thorn  v/ith 


EAST  LYNNE  367 

ner.  She  had,  more  than  once  before,  refused  to 
admit  me  when  I  had  gone  there  by  her  own  appoint- 
ment, and  I  always  found  that  Thorn's  presence  in  the 
cottage  was  the  obstacle." 

"I  suppose  you  and  Thorn  were  jealous  of  each 
other?" 

"I  v/as  jealous  of  him;  I  freely  admit  it.  I  don't 
know  whether  he  was  of  me." 

"May  I  inquire  what  was  the  nature  of  your  friend* 
ship  for  Miss  Afy  Hallijohn?" 

"I  loved  her  with  an  honorable  love;  as^I  might 
have  loved  any  young;_lady  in  my  own  station  ofTife.  >> 
I  would  not  have  married  her  in  opposition  to  my 
father  and  mother,  but  I  told  Afy  that  if  she  was  con- 
tent to  wait  for  me,  until  I  was  my  own  master,  I 
would  then  make  her  my  wife." 

"You  had  no  views  toward  her  of  a  different  na- 
ture?" 

"None.     I  cared  for  her  too  much  for  that.     And  I 
respected  her  father.      Afy's  mother  had  been  alady,  / 
too,  although  she  hadjmarried  HaIlijohh,'who  was  but 
clerk  to  Mr.  Carlyle.     No,  I   never  had  a  thought  of 
wrong  toward  Afy." 

"Now  relate  the  occurrences  of  the  evening." 

"Afy  would  not  admit  me,  and  we  had  a  few  words 
over  it.  But  at  length  I  went  away,  first  giving  her 
the  gun  and  telling  her  it  was  loaded.  She  lodged  it 
against  the  wall,  just  inside  the  door,  and  I  went  into 
the  wood  and  waited,  determined  to  see  whether  or  not 
Thorn  was  v/ith  her,  for  she  had  denied  that  he  was. 
Locksley  saw  me  there,  and  asked  why  I  was  hiding. 
I  did  not  answer;  but  I  went  further  off,  quite  out  of 
view  of  the  cottage.  Some  time  afterward,  less  than 
half  an  hour,  I  heard  a  shot  in  the  direction  of  the  cot- 
tage. Somebody  was  having  a  late  shot  at  the  par- 
tridges, I  thought.  Just  then  I  saw  Otway  Bethel 
emerge  from  the  trees  not  far  from  me,  and  run 
toward  the  cottage.  My  lord,"  added  Richard  Hare, 
looking  at  the  judge,  ''that  was  the  shot  that  killed 
Hallijohn." 


368  EAST  LYNNE 

"Could  the  shot,"  asked  the  counsel,  "have  been 
fired  by  Otway  Bethel?" 

"It  could  not.  It  was  much  further  off.  Bethel 
disappeared,  and  in  another  minute  there  came  one 
flying  down  the  path  leading  from  the  cottage.  It 
was  Thorn,  in  a  state  of  intense  terror.  His  face  was 
livid,  his  eyes  staring,  and  he  panted  and  shook  like 
one  in  the  ague.  Past  me  l^e  tore,  on  the  down  path, 
and  I  afterward  heard  the  sound  of  his  horse  gallop- 
ing away.  It  had  been  tied  in  the  wood." 
"Did  you  follow  him?" 

"No.  I  wondered  what  had  happened  to  put  him 
in  that  state;  but  I  made  haste  to  the  cottage,  intend- 
ing to  reproach  Afy  with  her  duplicity.  I  leaped  up  the 
two  steps,  and  fell  over  the  prostrate  body  of  Halli- 
john.  He  was  lying  dead,  within  the  door.  My  gun, 
just  discharged,  was  flung  on  the  floor,  its  contents  in 
Hallijohn's  side." 

You  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop  in  court,  so  intense 
was  the  interest. 

"There  appeared  to  be  no  one  in  the  cottage, 
upstairs  or  down.  I  called  to  Afy,  but  she  did  not 
answer.  I  caught  up  the  gun,  and  was  running  from 
the  cottage,  when  Locksley  came  out  of  the  wood,  and 
looked  at  me.  I  grew  confused,  fearful,  and  I  threw 
the  gun  back  again  and  made  off. " 

"What  were  your  motives  for  acting  that  way?" 
"A  panic  had  come  over  me;  and  in  that  moment  I 
must  have  lost  the  use  of  my  reason,  otherwise  I  never 
should  have  acted  as  I  did.       Thoughts,   especially  of 
fear,  pass  through  our  minds  with  astonishing  swift- 
ness, and  I   feared  lest  the  crime  should  be  fastened 
upon  me.      It  was  fear  that  made  me  snatch  up  my 
gun,  lest  it  should  be  found  near  the  body;  it  was  fear 
that   made   me   throw  it  back  again  when   Locksley 
appeared  in  view,  a  fear  from  which  all  judgment,  all 
reason,  had  departed.       But  for  my  own  conduct,  the 
charge  never  would  have  been  laid  to  me." 
"Goon." 
**In  my  flight  1  came  upon  Bethel.       I  knew  that  if 


EAST  LYNNE  369 

he  had  gone  toward  the  cottage,  after  the  shot  was 
fired,  he  must  have  encountered  Thorn,  flying  from  it. 
He  denied  that  he  had.  He  said  he  had  only  gone 
along  the  path  for  a  few  paces,  and  had  then  plunged 
into  the  wood  again.     I  believed  him,  and  departed." 

"Departed  from  West  Lynne?" 

*'That  night  I  did.  It  was  a  foolish,  fatal  step,  the 
result  of  cowardice.  I  found  the  charge  was  laid  to 
me,  and  I  thought  I  would  absent  myself  for  a  day  or 
two,  to  see  how  things  turned  out.  Next  came  the 
inquest  and  the  verdict  against  me,  and  I  left  for 
good." 

**This  is  the  truth,  so  far  as  you  are  cognizant  of  it?" 

''I  swear  that  it  is  the  truth  and  the  whole  truth,  so 
far  as  I  am  cognizant  of  it, ' '  replied  Richard  Hare,  with 
emotion.  "I  could  not  assert  it  more  solemnly  were  I 
before  God." 

He  was  subjected  to  a  rigid  cross-examination,  but 
his  testimony  was  not  shaken  in  the  least.  Perhaps 
not  one  present  but  was  impressed  with  its  truth. 

Afy  Hallijohn  was  recalled,  and  questioned  as  to 
Richard's  presence  at  her  father's  house  that  night. 
It  tallied  with  the  account  given  by  Richard;  but  it 
had  to  be  drawn  from  her. 

"Why  did  you  decline  to  receive  Richard  Hare  into 
the  cottage,    after  appointing  him  to  come?" 

"Because  1  chose,"  returned  Afy. 

"Tell  the  jury  why  you  chose." 

"Well,  I  had  got  a  friend  with  me.  It  was  Captain 
Thorn,"  she  added,  feeling  that  she  should  only  be 
questioned  on  the  point,  so  might  as  well  acknowledge 
it.  "1  did  not  admit  Richard  Hare,  for  I  fancied  they 
might  get  up  a  quarrel  if  they  were  together. " 

"For  what  purpose  did  Richard  Hare  bring  down 
his  gun?     Do  you  know?" 

"It  was  to  lend  to  my  father.  My  father's  gun  had 
something  the  matter  with  it  and  was  at  the  smith's. 
I  had  heard  him,  the  previous  day,  ask  Mr.  Richard 
to  lend  him  one  of  his,  and  Mr.  Richard  said  he  would 
bring  one,  as  he  did. " 

24  Lynne 


570  EAST  LYNNE 

"You  lodged  the  gun  against  the  wall.     Safely?" 

"Quite  safely." 

"Was  it  touched  by  you  after  placing  it  there,  or  by 
the  prisoner?" 

"I  did  not  touch  it.  Neither  did  he,  that  I  saw. 
It  was  the  same  gun,  which  was  afterward  found  near 
my  father,  and  had  been  discharged." 

The  next  witness  called  was  Otway  Bethel.  He 
held  share  also  in  the  curiosity  of  the  public,  but  not 
in  an  equal  degree  with  Afy,  still  less  with  Richard 
Hare.     The  substance  of  his  testimony  was  as  follows: 

"On  the  evening  that  Hallijohn  was  killed  I  was  in 
Abbey  Wood,  and  1  saw  Richard  Hare  come  down  the 
path  with  a  gun,  as  if  he  had  come  from  his  own 
home." 

"Did  Richard  Hare  see  you?" 

"No,  he  could  not  see  me;  I  was  right  in  the 
thicket.  He  went  to  the  cottage  door,  and  was  about 
to  enter,  when  Afy  Hallijohn  came  hastily  out  of  it, 
pulling  the  door  to  behind  her,  and  holding  it  in  her 
hand,  as  if  afraid  he  would  go  in.  Some  colloquy 
ensued,  but  I  was  too  far  off  to  hear  it,  and  then  she 
took  the  gun  from  him  and  went  in-doors.  Some  time 
after  that  I  saw  Richard  Hare  amid  the  trees  at  a  dis- 
tance, further  off  the  cottage  than  1  was,  and  appar- 
ently watching  the  path.  I  was  wondering  what  he 
was  up  to,  hiding  there,  when  I  heard  a  shot  fired, 
close,  as  it  seemed,  to  the  cottage,  and " 

"Stop  a  bit,  witness.  Could  that  shot  have  been 
fired  by  Richard  Hare?" 

"It  could  not.  He  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  nearly, 
away  from  it.  I  was  much  nearer  the  cottage  than 
he." 

"Go  on." 

"I  could  not  imagine  what  that  shot  meant,  or  who 
could  have  fired  it.  Not  that  I  suspected  mischief; 
and  I  knew  that  poachers  did  not  congregate  so  near 
Hallijohn's  cottage.  I  set  off  to  reconnoitre,  and  as  I 
turned  the  corner,  which  brought  the  house  Vvrithin  my 
view,   I  saw  Captain  Thorn— as  he  was  called— come 


EAST  LYNNE  371 

leaping  out  of  it.  His  face  was  white  with  terror,  his 
breath  was  gone — in  short,  I  never  saw  any  living 
man  betray  so  much  agitation.  I  caught  his  arm  as  he 
would  have  passed  me.     'What  have  you  been  about?* 

I  asked.     'Was  it  you  who  fired?'     He " 

"Stop.  Why  did  you  suspect  him?" 
"From  his  state  of  excitement;  from  the  terror  he 
was  in.  That  some  ill  had  happened  1  felt  sure — and 
so  would  you,  had  you  seen  him  as  I  did.  My  arrest- 
ing him  increased  his  agitation;  he  tried  to  throw  me 
off,  but  I  am  a  strong  man,  and  I  suppose  he  thought 
it  best  to  temporize.  'Keep  dark  upon  it,  Bethel,'  he 
said.  'I  will  make  it  worth  your  while.  The  thing 
was  not  premeditated,  it  was  done  in  the  heat  of  pas- 
sion. What  business  had  the  fellow  to  abuse  me?  I 
have  done  no  harm  to  the  girl. '  As  he  thus  spoke, 
he  took  out  a  pocket-book  with  the  hand  that  was  at 

liberty;  I  held  the  other " 

"As  the  prisoner  thus  spoke,  you  mean?" 
"The  prisoner.  He  took  a  bank-note  from  his 
pocket-book,  and  thrust  it  into  my  hands.  It  was  a 
note  for  fifty  pounds.  'What's  done  can't  be  undone, 
Bethel,'  he  said,  'and  your  saying  that  you  saw  me 
here  can  serve  no  good  turn.  Shall  it  be  silence?'  I 
took  the  note,  and  answered  that  it  should  be  silence. 
I  had  not  the  least  idea  that  anybody  was  killed. " 
"What  did  j^ou  suppose  had  happened,  then?" 
"I  could  not  suppose;  I  could  not  think;  it  all  passed 
in  the  haste  and  confusion  of  a  moment,  and  no  definite 
ideas  occurred  to  me.  Thorn  flew  on  down  the  path, 
and  1  stood  looking  after  him.  The  next  was,  I  heard 
footsteps,  and  I  slipped  within  the  trees.  They  were 
those  of  Richard  Hare,  who  took  the  path  to  the  cot- 
tage. Presently  he  returned,  little  less  agitated  than 
Thorn  had  been.  1  had  gone  into  an  open  space  then, 
and  he  accosted  me,  asking  me  if  I  had  seen  'that 
hound'  fly  from  the  cottage?  'What  hound?'  I  asked 
him.  'That  fine  fellow,  that  Thorn,  who  comes  after 
Afy,'  he  answered;  but  I  stoutly  denied  that  I  had  seen 


372  EAST  LYNNE 

any  one.  Richard  Hare  continued  his  way.  and  I 
afterward  found  that  Hallijohn  was  killed." 

'*And  so  you  took  a  bribe  to  conceal  one  of  the  foul- 
est crimes  that  ever  man  committed,  Mr.  Otway 
Bethel?" 

**I  took  the  money,  and  am  ashamed  to  confess  to  it. 
But  it  was  done  v/ithout  reflection.  I  swear  that  had 
1  known  what  crime  it  was  intended  to  hush  up,  I 
never  would  have  touched  it.  I  wsls  hard  up  for  funds, 
and  the  amount  tempted  me.  When  1  discovered 
what  had  really  happened,  and  that  Richard  Hare  v/as 
accused,  I  was  thunderstruck  at  my  own  deed.  Many 
a  hundred  times  since  have  I  cursed  the  money,  and  the 
fate  of  Richard  has  been  as  a  heavy  weight  upon  my 
conscience. " 

"You  might  have  lifted  the  weight  by  confessing." 

"To  what  end?  It  was  too  late.  Thorn  had  disap- 
peared. I  never  heard  of  him,  or  saw  him,  until  he 
came  to  West  Lynne  this  last  spring,  as  Sir  Francis 
Levison,  to  oppose  Mr.  Carlyle.  Richard  Hare  had 
also  disappeared,  had  never  been  seen  or  heard  of,  and 
most  people  supposed  he  was  dead.  To  what  end, 
then,  should  I  confess?  Perhaps  only  to  be  suspected 
myself.  Besides,  I  had  taken  the  money  upon  a  cer- 
tain understanding,  and  it  was  only  fair  that  I  should 
keep  to  it." 

If  Richard  Hare  was  subjected  to  a  severe  cross- 
examination,  a  far  more  severe  one  awaited  Otway 
Bethel.  The  judge  spoke  to  him  only  once,  his  tone 
ringing  with  reproach. 

"It  appears  then,  v/itness,  that  you  have  retained 
within  you,  all  these  years,  the  proofs  of  Richard 
Hare's  innocence?" 

"1  can  only  acknowledge  it  with  contrition,  my 
lord." 

"What  did  you  know  of  Thorn  in  those  days?"  asked 
the  counsel. 

"Nothing,  save  that  he  frequented  the  Abbey  Wood, 
his  object  being  Afy  Hallijohn.  I  had  never  exchanged 
a   word  with   him   until  this  night;  but   I  knew   his 


EAST  LYNNE  r^ 

name — Thorn — at  least  the  one  he  went  by.     And  by 
his  calling  me  Bethel,  it  appeared  that  he  knew  mine." 

The  case  for  the  prosecution  closed.  An  able  and  ^ 
ingenious  speech  was  made  for  the  defense,  the  learned 
counsel  who  offered  it  contending  that  there  was  still 
no  proof  of^Sir  Francis  Levison  having  been  the  guilty 
man.  Neither  was  there  any  proof  that  the  catas- 
trophe was  not  the  result  of  pure  accident.  A  loaded 
gun,  standing  against  the  wall  in  a  small  room,  was 
not  a  safe  weapon;  and  he  called  upon  the  jury  not 
rashly  to  convict  in  the  uncertainty,  but  to  give  the 
prisoner  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  He  should  call  no^ 
witnesses,  he  observed,  not  even  as  to  character. 
Character!  for  Sir  Francis  Levison!  The  court  burst 
into  a  grin,  the  only  sober  face  in  it  being  that  of  the 
judge. 

The  judge  summed  up.  Certainly  not  in  the  pris- 
oner's favor,  but — to  use  the  expression  of  some 
amongst  the  audience — dead  against  him.  Otway 
Bethel  came  in  for  a  side  shaft  or  two  from  his  lord- 
ship; Richard  Hare  for  sympathy.  The  jury  retired 
about  four  o'clock,  and  the  judge  quitted  the  bench. 

A  very  short  time  they  v/ere  absent.  Scarcely  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  His  lordship  turned  into  court, 
and  the  prisoner  was  again  placed  in  the  dock.  He 
was  the  hue  of  marble,  and,  in  his  nervous  agitation, 
kept  incessantly  throwing  back  his  hair  from  his  fore- 
head— the  action  so  often  spoken  of.  Silence  was  pro- 
claimed. 

"How  say  you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury?  Guilty  or 
not  guilty?" 

"Guilty!"  It  was  a  silence  to  be  felt,  and  the  pris- 
oner gasped  once  or  twice  convulsively.  ' '  But, ' '  added 
the  foreman,  "we  wish  to  recommend  him  to  mercy." 

"On  what  grounds?"  inquired  the  judge. 

"Because,  my  lord,  we  believe  that  it  was  not  a  crime 
planned  by  the  prisoner  beforehand,  but  arose  from 
the  bad  passions  of  the  moment,  and  was  so  com- 
mitted." 

The  judge  paused,  and  drew  something  black  from 


374  EAST  LYNNE 

the  receptacle  of  his  pocket,  buried  deep  in  his 
robes. 

"Prisoner  at  the  bar!  Have  you  anything  to  urge 
why  the  sentence  of  death  should  not  be  passed  upon 
you?" 

The  prisoner  clutched  the  front  of  the  dock.  He 
threw  up  his  head,  as  if  shaking  off  the  dread  fear 
which  had  oppressed  him,  and  the  marble  of  his  face 
changed  to  scarlet. 

"Only  this,  my  lord.  The  jury,  in  giving  their  rea- 
son for  recommending  me  to  your  lordship's  mercy, 
have  adopted  the  right  view  of  the  case,  as  it  actually 
occurred.  That  the  man,  Hallijohn's,  life  was  taken 
by  me,  it  will  be  useless  for  me  to  deny,  in  the  face  of 
the  evidence  given  this  day.  But  it  was  not  taken  in 
malice.  When  I  quitted  the  girl,  Afy,  and  went  to  the 
cottage  for  my  hat,  I  no  more  contemplated  injuring 
mortal  man  than  I  contemplate  it  at  this  moment. 
He  was  there — the  father — and  in  the  dispute  that 
ensued  the  catastrophe  occurred.  My  lord,  it  was  not 
wilful  murder." 

The  prisoner  ceased.  And  the  judge,  the  black  cap 
upon  his  head,  crossed  his  hands  one  upon  the  other. 

"Prisoner  at  the  bar!  You  have  been  convicted,  by 
clear  and  undoubted  evidence,  of  the  crime  of  wilful 
murder.  The  jury  have  pronounced  you  guilty,  and 
in  their  verdict  I  entirely  coincide.  That  you  took  the 
life  of  that  ill-fated  and  unoffending  man  there  is  no 
doubt;  you  have  yourself  confessed  it.  It  was  a  foul, 
a  barbarous,  a  wicked  act.  I  care  not  what  m.ay  have 
been  the  particular  circumstances  attending  it ;  he  may 
have  provoked  by  words,  but  no  provocation  of  that 
nature  could  justify  your  drawing  the  gun  upon  him. 
Your  counsel  urged  that  you  were  a  gentleman,  a 
^  menibeF  of  the  British  aristocracy,  and  therefore 
deserved  consideration.  I  confess  that  I  was  very 
:mucli~surprised  to  hear  such  a  doctrine  fall  from  his 
lips.  In  my  opinion,  your  position  in  life  makes  your 
crime  the  worse;  and  I  have  always  maintained  that 
when  a  man  possessed  of  advantages  falls  into  sin,  he 


EAST  LYNNE  375 

deserves  less  consideration  than  does  one  who  is  poor,\ 
simple  and  uneducated.  Certain  proportions  of  the  1 
evidence  given  to-day  (and  I  do  not  allude  to  the  ' 
actual  crime)  tell  very  greatly  against  you.  You 
were  pursuing  the  daughter  of  this  man  with  no  hon- 
orable purpose — and  in  this  point  your  conduct  con- 
trasts badly  with  that  of  Richard  Hare,  equally  a  gen- 
tleman with  yourself.  In  this  pursuit  you  killed  her 
father;  and,  not  content  with  that,  you  still  pursued 
the  girl — and  pursued  her  to  her  ruin — basely  deceiv- 
ing her  as  to  the  actual  facts,  and  laying  the  crime 
upon  another.  I  cannot  trust  myself  to  speak  further 
upon  this  point,  nor  is  it  necessary  that  I  should.  It 
is  not  to  answer  for  that,  that  you  stand  before  me. 
Uncalled,  unprepared,  andbyyouunpitied,  you  hurried 
that  unfortunate  man  into  eternity,  and  you  must  now 
expiate  the  crime  with  your  own  life.  The  jury  have 
recommended  you  to  mercy,  and  the  recommenda- 
tion will  be  forwarded  in  due  course  to  the  proper 
quarter;  but  you  must  be  aware  how  frequently  this 
clause  is  appended  to  a  verdict,  and  hov/  very  rarely  it 
is  attended  to,  just  cause  being  wanting.  I  can  but 
enjoin  you,  and  I  do  so  most  earnestly,  to  pass  the 
little  time  that  probably  remains  to  you  on  earth  in 
seeking  repentance  and  forgiveness.  You  are  best 
aware  yourself,  what  your  past  life  has  been — the 
world  knows  somewhat  of  it — but  there  is  pardon 
above  for  the  most  guilty,  when  it  is  earnestly  sought. 
It  now  only  remains  for  me  to  pass  upon  you  the 
dread  sentence  of  the  law.  It  is  that  you,  Francis 
Levison,  be  taken  back  to  the  place  whence  you  came, 
and  thence  to  the  place  of  execution,  and  that  you  be 
there  hanged  by  the  neck  until  you  are  dead.  And 
may  the  Lord  God  Almighty  have  mercy  upon  your 
immortal  soul.     Amen." 

The  court  was  cleared.  The  day's  excitement  was 
over,  and  the  next  case  was  inquired  for.  Not  quite 
over  yet,  however,  the  excitement,  and  the  audience 
crowded  in  again.  For  the  next  case  proved  to  be  the 
arraignment  of  Richard  Hare  the  younger.     A  forma/ 


376  EAST  LYNNE 

proceeding*,  merely,  in  pursuance  of  the  verdict  of  the 
coroner's  inquest.  No  evidence  was  offered  against 
him,  and  the  judge  ordered  him  to  be  discharged. 
Richard— poor,  ill-used,  baited  Richard — was  a  free 
man  again. 

Then  ensued  the  scene  of  all  scenes.  Half,  at  least, 
of  those  present  were  residents  of,  or  from  near  West 
Lynne.  They  had  known  Richard  Hare  from  infancy: 
they  had  admired  the  boy  in  pretty  childhood ;  they 
had  liked  him  in  his  unoffending  boyhood;  but  they 
had  been  none  the  less  ready  to  cast  their  harsh  stones 
at  him,  and  to  thunder  down  their  denunciations, 
when  the  time  came.  In  proportion  to  their  fierceness 
then,  was  their  contrition  now.  Richard  had  been 
innocent  all  the  while — they  had  been  more  guilty 
than  he.  An  English  mob,  gentle  or  simple,  never 
gets  up  its  excitement  by  halves.  Whether  its  demon- 
stration be  of  a  laudatory  or  a  condemnatory  nature, 
the  steam  is  sure  to  be  put  on  to  bursting  point.  With 
one  universal  shout,  with  one  bound,  they  rallied 
round  Richard.  They  congratulated  him,  they  over- 
whelmed him  with  good  wishes,  they  expressed  with 
shame  their  repentance,  they  said  that  the  future 
should  atone  for  the  past.  Had  he  possessed  a  hun- 
dred hands  they  would  have  been  shaken  off..  And 
when  Richard  extricated  himself,  and  turned,  in  his 
pleasant,  forgiving,  loving  nature,  to  his  father,  the 
stern  old  justice,  forgetting  his  pride  and  his  pompos- 
ity, burst  into  tears  and  sobbed  like  a  child,  as  he  mur- 
mured something  about  he,  also,  wanting  forgiveness. 

"Dear  father,"  cried  Richard,  his  own  eyes  wet,  ''it 
is  forgiven  and  forgotten  already.  Think  how  happy 
we  shall  be  again  together — you  and  I,  and  my 
mother!" 

The  justice's  hands,  which  had  been  wound  round 
his  son,  relaxed  their  hold.  They  were  tv/itching  curi- 
ously, the  face  was  twitching  curiouslv ;  the  body  also 
began  to  twitch;  and  he  fell  upon  'the  shoulder  of 
Colonel  Bethel,  in  a  second  stroke  of  paralysis. 


EAST  LYNNE  317 


CHAPTER   LVI 

THE  DEATH   CHAMBER 

By  the  side  of  William  Carlyle's  dying  bed  knelt  the^ 
Lady  Isabel.     The  time  was  at  hand,  and  the  boy  was! 
quite  reconciled  to  his  fate.      Merciful  indeed  is  God.^r 
to  dying  children !    It  is  astonishing  how  very  readily, 
where  the  right  means  are  taken,  they  may  be  made 
to  look  with   pleasure,  rather  than   fear,   upon  their 
unknown  journey. 

The  brilliant,  hectic  type  of  the  disease  had  gone 
from  his  cheeks,  his  features  were  white  and  wasted, 
and  his  eyes  large  and  bright.  His  silky  brown  hair 
was  pushed  off  his  temples,  and  his  little  hot  hands 
were  thrown  outside  the  bed. 

"It  won't  be  so  very  long  to  wait,  you  know,  will  it, 
Madame  Vine?" 

**For  what,  darling?" 

"Before  they  all  come.  Papa  and  mamma,  and 
Lucy,  and  all  of  them." 

A  jealous  feeling  shot  across  her  wearied  heart. 
Was  she  nothing  to  him?  "Do  you  care  that  I  should 
come  to  you,  William?" 

"Yes,  I  hope  you  will.  But  do  you  think  we  shall 
know  everybody  in  Heaven?  Or  will  it  be  only  our 
own  relations?" 

"Oh,  child,  I  think  there  will  be  no  relations,  as  you 
call  them,  up  there.  We  can  trust  all  to  God — how- 
ever it  may  he." 

William  lay  looking  upward  at  the  sky,  apparently 
in  thought.  A  dark-blue,  serene  sky,  from  which 
shone  the  hot  July  sun.  His  bed  had  been  moved  near 
the  window,  for  he  liked  to  sit  up  in  it  and  look  at  the 
landscape.  The  window  was  open  now,  and  the  butter- 
flies and  bees  sported  in  the  summer  air. 

"I   wonder  hovy   it   will   be?"    pondered  he,   aloud. 


378  EAST  LYNNE 

*' There  will  be  the  beautiful  city,  with  its  gates  of 
pearl,  and  its  shining  precious  stone,  and  its  streets  of 
gold;  and  there  will  be  the  clear  river,  and  the  trees 
with  their  fruits  and  their  healing  leaves  and  the 
lovel}^  flowers ;  and  there  will  be  the  harps  and  music 
and  singing;  and  what  else  will  there  be?" 

"Everything  that  is  desirable  and  beautiful,  Wil- 
liam." 

Another  pause.  "Madame  Vine,  will  Jesus  come 
for  me,  do  you  think,  or  will  he  send  an  angel?" 

"Jesus  has  promised  to  come  for  His  own  redeemed; 
for  those  who  love  Him  and  wait  for  Him." 

"Yes,  yes.  And  then  I  shall  be  happy  forever.  It 
will  be  so  pleasant  to  be  there!  never  to  be  tired  or  ill 
again." 

"Pleasant?  Ay!  Oh,  William,  would  that  the  time 
were  come!"  She  was  thinking  of  herself;  her  free- 
dom ;  though  the  boy  knew  it  not.  She  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands  and  continued  speaking.  William 
had  to  bend  his  ear  to  catch  the  faint  whisper. 

"  'And  there  shall  be  no  more  death,  neither  sorrow 
nor  crying;  neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain;  for 
the  former  things  are  passed  away.'  " 

"Madame  Vine,  do  you  think  mamma  will  be 
there?"  he  presently  asked.  "I  mean  mamma  that 
was. ' ' 

"Ay!     Erelong." 

"But  how  shall  I  know  her?  You  see  I  have  nearly 
forgotten  what  she  was  like." 

She  leaned  over  him,  laying  her  forehead  upon  his 
wasted  arm;  she  burst  into  a  flood  of  impassioned 
tears.  "You  will  know  her,  never  fear,  William;  she 
has  not  forgotten  you. ' ' 

"But  how  can  we  be  sure  that  she  will  be  there?" 
debated  William,  after  a  pause  of  thought.  "You 
know" — sinking  his  voice,  and  speaking  with  hesita- 
tion— "she  was  not  quite  good.  She  was  not  good  to 
papa  or  to  us.  Sometimes  I  think,  suppose  she  did 
not  grow  good,  and  did  not  ask  God  to  forgive  her?" 

"Oh,    William,"   sobbed    the    unhappy  lady,    "het 


EAST  LYNNE  379 

whole  life,  after  she  left  you,  was  one  long  scene  of  jij^ 
repentance,  of  seeking  forgiveness.     Her  repentance, 
her  sorrow,  was  greater  than  she  could  bear,  and " 

"And  what?"  asked  William,  for  there  was  a  pause. 

"Her  heart  broke  in  it;  yearning  after  you  and  your 
father." 

"What  makes  you  think  it?" 

"Child,  I  know  it." 

William  considered.  Then — had  he  been  strong 
enough — he  would  have  started  up  with  energy. 
"Madame  Vine,  you  could  only  know  that  by  mam- 
ma's telling  you!  Did  you  ever  see  her?  Did  you 
know  her  abroad?" 

Lady  Isabel's  thoughts  were  far  away;  up  in  the 
clouds,  perhaps.  She  reflected  not  on  the  possible 
consequences  of  her  answer,  or  she  had  never  given  it. 

"Yes,  I  knew  her  abroad." 

"Oh!"  said  the  boy.  "Why  did  you  never  tell  us? 
What  did  she  say?     What  was  she  like?" 

"She  said" — sobbing  wildly — "that  she  was  parted 
from  her  children  here.  But  she  should  meet  them  in 
Heaven  and  be  with  them  forever.  William,  darling! 
all  the  awful  pain  and  sadness  of  guilt  of  this  world  will 
be  washed  out,  and  God  will  wipe  our  tears  away." 

"What  was  her  face  like?"  he  questioned,  softly. 

"Like  yours.     Very  much  like  Lucy's." 

"Was  she  pretty?" 

A  momentary  pause.     "Yes." 

"Oh,  dear!  I  am  ill!  Hold  me!"  cried  out  Wil- 
liam, as  his  head  sank  to  one  side,  and  great  drops,  as 
large  as  peas,  broke  forth  upon  his  clammy  face.  It 
appeared  to  be  one  of  the  temporary  faint  attacks  that 
had  overpowered  him  at  times  lately,  and  Lady  Isabel 
rang  the  bell  hastily. 

Wilson  came  in,  in  answer.  Joyce  was  the  usual 
attendant  upon  the  sick-room,  but  Mrs.  Carlyle,  with 
her  infant,  was  passing  the  day  at  the  Grove,  uncon- 
scious of  the  critical  state  of  William,  and  she  had 
taken  Joyce  with  her.  It  was  the  day  following  the 
trial.       Mr.  Justice   Hare  had  been  brought  to  West 


380  EAST  LYNNE 

Lynne  in  his  second  attack,  and  Barbara  had  gone  to 
see  him,  to  console  her  mother,  and  to  welcome  Richf 
ard  to  his  home  again.  If  one  carriage  drove  that  da}? 
to  the  Grove  with  cards  and  inquiries,  fifty  did,  not  to 
speak  of  the  foot  callers. 

*'It  is  all  meant  by  way  of  attention  to  you,  Rich- 
ard," said  gentle  Mrs.  Hare,  smiling  through  her  lov- 
ing tears  at  her  restored  son.  Lucy  and  Archie  were 
dining  at  Miss  Carlyle's,  and  Sarah  attended  little 
Arthur,  leaving  Wilson  free.  She  came  in,  in  answer 
to  Madame  Vine's  ring. 

"Is  he  off  in  another  faint?"  uncerem.oniously  cried 
she,  hastening  to  the  bed. 

"I  think  so.      Help  me  to  raise  him. " 

William  did  not  faint.  No,  the  attack  was  quite 
different  from  those  he  was  subject  to.  Instead  of 
losing  consciousness  and  power,  as  was  customary,  he 
shook  as  if  he  had  the  ague,  and  laid  hold  both  of 
Madame  Vine  and  Wilson,  grasping  them  convul- 
sively, 

"Don't  let  me  fall!  don't  let  me  fall!"  he  gasped. 

"My  dear,  you  cannot  fall,"  responded  Madame 
Vine.     "You  forget. that  you  are  on  the  bed." 

He  clasped  them  yet,  and  trembled  still,  as  from 
fear.  "Don't  let  me  fall!  don't  let  me  fall!"  the 
incessant  burden  of  his  cry. 

The  paroxysm  passed.  They  wiped  his  brow,  and 
stood  looking  at  him — Wilson  with  a  pursed-up  mouth, 
and  a  peculiar  expression  of  face.  She  put  a  spoonful 
of  restorative  jelly  between  his  lips,  and  he  swallowed 
it,  but  shook  his  head  when  she  would  have  given  him 
another.  Turning  his  face  to  the  pillow,  in  a  few 
minutes  he  was  in  a  doze. 

"What  could  it  have  been?"  exclaimed  Lady  Isabel, 

\in  an  undertone  to  Wilson. 
,    "I  know,"  was  the  oracular  answer.       "I  saw  this 
same  sort  of  attack  once  before,  madame. " 
"And  what  caused  it?" 

"  'Twasn't  in  a  child,  though,"  went  on  Wilson. 
"  'Twas  in  a  grown-up  person.      But  that's  nothing- 


EAST  LYNNE  381 

"t  comes  for  the  same  thing  in  all.       I  think  he  was 
aken  for  death." 

*'Who?"  uttered  Lady  Isabel,  startled. 

Wilson  made  no  reply  in  words,  but  she  pointed 
with  her  finger  to  the  bed. 

*'Oh,  Wilson!  He  is  not^so  ill  as  that.  Mr.  Wain- 
wright  said  this  morning  that  he  might  last  a  week  or 
two." 

Wilson  composedly  sat  down  in  the  easiest  chair. 
She  was  not  wont  to  put  herself  out  of  the  way  for  the 
governess,  and  that  governess  was  too  much  afraid  of 
her,  in  one  sense,  to  let  her  know  her  place. 

"As  to  Wainwright,  he's  nobody,"  quoth  she. 
"And  if  he  saw  the  child's  breath  going  out  before  his 
face,  and  knew  that  the  next  moment  would  be  his 
last,  he'd  vow  to  us  all  that  he  was  good  for  twelve 
hours  to  come.  You  don't  know  Wainwright  as  I  do, 
madame.  He  was  our  doctor  at  mother's,  and  he  has 
attended  in  all  the  places  I  have  lived  in  since  I  went 
out  to  service.  Five  years  I  was  head  nurse  at  Squire 
Pinner's;  going  on  for  four  I  was  lady's-maid  at  Mrs. 
Hare's;  I  cam.e  here  when  Miss  Lucy  was  a  baby,  and 
in  all  my  places  has  he  attended,  like  one's  shadow. 
My  Lady  Isabel  thought  great  guns  of  old  Wain- 
wright, I  remember.     It  was  more  than  I  did." 

My  Lady  Isabel  made  no  response  to  this.  She  took 
a  seat,  and  watched  William.  His  breathing  was  more 
labored  than  usual. 

"That  idiot,  Sarah,  says  to  me  to-day,  says  she, 
*Which  of  his  two  grandpas  will  they  bury  him  by — • 
old  Mr.  Carlyle  or  Lord  Mount  Severn?'  'Don't  be  a 
calf!'  I  answered  her.  'D'ye  think  they'll  stick  him 
out  in  the  corner  with  my  lord?  He'll  be  put  in  the 
Carlyle  vault,  of  course.'  It  would  have  been  differ- 
ent, you  see,  Madame  Vine,  if  my  lady  had  died  at 
home,  all  proper,  Mr.  Carlyle's  wife.  They'd  have 
buried  her,  no  doubt,  by  her  father,  and  the  boy  would 
have  been  laid  with  her.      But  she  did  not." 

No  reply  was  made  by  Madame  Vine,  and  a  silence 
ensued.     Nothing  to  be  heard  but  that  fleeting  breath. 


382  EAST  LYNNE 

"I  wonder  how  that  beauty  feels?"  suddenly  broke 
forth  Wilson  again,  her  tone  of  scornful  irony. 

Lady  Isabel,  her  eyes  and  her  thoughts  absorbed  by 
William,  positively  thought  Wilson's  words  must 
relate  to  him.     She  turned  to  her  in  surprise. 

"That  bright  gem  in  the  prison  at  Lynneborough," 
explained  Wilson.  "1  hope  he  may  have  found  him- 
self pretty  well  since  yesterday!  I  wonder  how 
many  trainfuls  from  West  Lynne  will  go  to  his  hang- 
in  o- 


,•?' 


Her  face  turned  crimson;  her  heart  sick.  She  had 
not  dared  to  inquire  how  the  trial  terminated.  The 
subject  altogether  was  too  dreadful,  and  nobody  had 
happened  to  mention  it  in  her  hearing. 

"Is  he  condemned?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  tone. 

'*He  is  condemned;  and  good  luck  to  him!  and  Mr. 
Otway  Bethel's  let  loose  again;  and  good  luck  to  him. 
A  nice  pair  they  are!  Nobody  went  from  this  house 
to  hear  the  trial — it  might  not  have  been  pleasant, 
you  know,  madame,  to  Mr.  Carlyle;  but  people  came 
in  last  night  and  told  us  all  about  it.  Young  Richard 
Hare  chiefly  convicted  him.  He  is  back  again,  and  so 
nice-looking,  they  say— ten  times  more  so  than  he  was 
when  quite  a  young  man.  You  should  have  heard, 
they  say,  the  cheerings  and  shouts  which  greeted  Mr. 
Richard  when  his  innocence  came  out ;  it  pretty  near 
rose  off  the  roof  of  the  court;  and  the  judge  didn't 
stop  it." 

Wilson  paused,  but  there  was  no  answering  com- 
ment.    On  she  went  again. 

"When  Mr.  Carlyle  brought  the  news  home  last 
evening,  and  broke  it  to  his  wife — telling  her  how 
Mr.  Richard  had  been  received  with  acclamations,  she 
nearly  fainted;  for  she's  not  strong  yet.  Mr.  Carlyle 
called  out  to  me  to  bring  som^e  water — I  was  in  the 
next  room  with  the  baby — and  there  she  was,  the 
tears  raining  from  her  eyes,  and  he  holding  her  to  him. 
I  always  said  there  was  a  whole  world  of  love  between 
those  two,  though  he  did  go  and  marry  another.  Mr. 
Carlyle  ordered  me  to  put  the  water  down,  and  sent 


EAST  LYNNE  383 

me  away  again.       But  I  don't  fancy  he  told  her  of 
Hare's  attack  until  this  morning.'' 

Lady  Isabel  lifted  her  aching  forehead.  "What 
attack?" 

"Why,  madame,  don't  you  know?  1  declare,  you  box 
yourself  up  in  the  house,  keeping  from  everybody,  till 
you  hear  nothing.  You  might  as  well  be  living  at  the 
bottom  of  a  coal-pit.  Old  Hare  had  another  stroke  in 
the  court  at  Lynneborough,  and  that's  why  my  mis- 
tress is  gone  to  the  Grove  to-day." 

"Who  says  Richard  Hare's  coming  home,  Wil- 
son?" 

The  question,  the  weak,  scarcely  audible  question, 
had  come  from  the  dying  boy.  Wilson  threw  up  her 
hands,  and  made  a  bound  to  the  bed.  "The  like  of 
that!"  she  uttered,  aside  to  Madame  Vine.  "One 
never  knows  when  to  take  these  sick  ones.  Master 
William,  you  hold  your  tongue,  and  drop  off  to  sleep 
again.  Your  papa  will  be  home  soon  from  Lynne- 
borough, and  if  you  talk  and  get  tired  he'll  say  it's 
my  fault.     Will  you  have  a  bit  more  jelly?" 

William,    making    no   reply   to    the    offer  of  jelly, 
buried  his  face  again  on  the  pillow.     But  he  was  griev-     / 
ously  restless.     The  nearly  worn-out  spirit  was  ebbing  v 
and  flowing, 

Mr.  Carlyle  was  at  Lynneborough.  He  always  had 
much  business  there  at  assize  time,  in  the  Nisi  Prius 
court.  But  the  previous  day  he  had  not  gone  himself; 
Mr.  Dill  had  been  dispatched  to  represent  him. 
Between  seven  and  eight  he  returned  home,  and  came 
into  William's  chamber.  The  boy  brightened  up  at 
the  well-known  presence. 

"Papa!" 

Mr.    Carlyle  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  kissed  him.\ 
The  passing  beams  of  the  sun,  slanting  from  the  hor-\ 
izon,  shone  into  the  room,  and  Mr.  Carlyle  could  view  I 
well  the  dying  face.     The  gray  hue  of  death  was  cer- 
tainly on  it. 

"Is  he  worse?"  he  exclaimed,  hastilv.  to  Madame 
Vine. 


384  EAST  LYNNE 

"He  appears  to  be  worse  this  evening,  sir  More 
W6alc  ' 

*'Papa,"  panted  William,  "is  the  trial  over?" 

"What  trial,  my  boy?" 

"Sir  Francis  Levison's. " 

"It  was  over  yesterday.  Never  trouble  your  head 
about  him,  my  brave  boy.     He  is  not  worth  it.  '* 

"But  I  want  to  know.     Will  they  hang  him?" 

"He  is  sentenced  to  it." 

"Did  he  kill  Hallijohn?" 

"Yes.  Who  has  been  talking  to  him  upon  the  sub- 
ject?" Mr.  Carlyle  continued  to  Madame  Vine,  marked 
displeasure  in  his  tone. 

"Wilson  mentioned  it,  sir,"  was  the  low  answer. 

"Oh,  papa,   what  will  he  do?      Will  Jesus  forgive 
Vhim?" 

"We  must  hope  it." 

"Do  you  hope  it,  papa?" 

"Yes.     I  wish   that  all  the  world  may  be  forgiven, 
\ .  William,    whatever  may  have  been  their  sins.       My 
*'  child,  how  restless  you  seem!" 

"I  can't  keep  in  one  place.  The  bed  gets  wrong 
Pull  me  up  on  the  pillow,  will  you,  Madame  Vine?" 

Mr.  Carlyle  gently  lifted  the  boy  himself.  "Madame 
Vine  is  an  untiring  nurse  to  you,  William,"  he 
observed,  gratefully  casting  a  glance  toward  her  in  the 
distance,  where  she  had  retreated,  and  was  shaded  by 
the  window  curtain. 

William  made  no  reply.  He  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
recall  something      "I  forget;  T  forget. " 

"Forget  what?  '  asked  Mr.  Carlyle. 

"It  was  something  I  wanted  to  ask  you;  or  to  tell 
you.     Isn't  Lucy  come  home?" 

"I  suppose  not." 

"Papa,  I  want  Joyce." 

"I  will  send  her  home  to  you.  I  am  going  for  your 
mamma  after  dinner." 

"For  mamma?— oh,  1  remember  now.  Papa,  how 
shall  I  know  mamma  in  Heaven?     Not  this  mamma." 

Mr.  Carlyle  did  not  immediately  reply.     The  question 


EAST  LYNNE  3iid 

may  have  puzzled  him.      William  continued   hastily; 
possibly  mistaking  the  motive  of  the  silence. 

"She  will  be  in  Heaven,  you  know." 

"Yes,  yes,  child,"  speaking  hurriedly. 

"Madame  Vine  knows  she  will.  She  saw  her 
abroad,  and  mamma  told  her  that — what  was  it, 
madame?" 

Madame  Vine  grew  sick  with  alarm.  Mr.  Carlyle 
turned  his  eyes  upon  her  scarlet  face — as  much  as  he 
could  get  to  see  of  it.  She  would  have  escaped  from 
the  room  if  she  could. 

"Mamma  was  more  sorry  than  she  could  bear," 
went  on  William,  finding  he  was  not  helped.  "She 
wanted  you,  papa,  and  she  wanted  us,  and  her  heart 
broke,  and  she  died." 

A  flush  rose  to  Mr.  Carlyle's  brow.  He  turned 
inquiringly  to  Madame  Vine.  "Oh,  I  beg  your  par- 
don, sir,"  she  murmured,  with  desperate  energy.  "I 
ought  not  so  to  have  spoken ;  I  ought  not  to  have  inter- 
fered in  your  family  affairs.  I  spoke  only  as  1  thought 
it  must  be,  sir.  The  boy  seemed  troubled  about  his 
mother." 

Mr.  Carlyle  was  at  sea.  "Did  you  meet  his  mother 
abroad?  I  scarcely  understand."  She  lifted  her 
hand  and  covered  her  glowing  face.  '*No,  sir." 
Surely  the  recording  angel  blotted  out  the  words!  If  ^ 
ever  a  prayer  for  forgiveness  went  up  from  an  aching^ 
heart,  it  must  have  gone  up  then,  for  the  equivocation 
uttered  over  her  child's  death-bed! 

Mr.  Carlyle  went  toward  her.  "Do  you  perceive  the. 
change  in  his  countenance?"  he  whispered. 

"Yes,    sir,   yes.      He  has  looked  like   this  since  a] 
strange  fit  of  trembling  that  came  on  in  the  afternoon. 
Wilson  thought  he  might  be  taken  for  death.       I  fear 
some  four-and- twenty  hours  will  end  it." 

Mr.  Carlyle  rested  his  elbow  on  the  window-frame, 
and  his  hand  upon  his  brow,  his  drooping  eyelids  fall- 
ing over  his  eyes.     "It  is  hard  to  lose  him." 

"Oh,  sir,  he  will  be  better  off!"  she  wailed,  choking 
down  the  sobs  and  the  emotion  that  arose  threaten- 

25  Lynu 


388  EAST  LYNNE 

!  ingly.  "We  can  bear  death;  it  is  not  the  worst  part- 
is ing  that  the  earth  knows.  He  will  be  quit  of  this 
Icruel  world— sheltered  in  Heaven.  I  wish  we  were  all 
(there!" 

A  servant  came  to  say  that  Mr.  Carlyle's  dinner  was 
served,  and  he  proceeded  to  it  with  what  appetite  he 
had.  When  he  returned  to  the  sick-room  the  daylight 
had  faded,  and  a  solitary  candle  was  placed  where  its 
rays  could  not  fall  upon  the  child's  face.  Mr.  Carlyle 
took  the  light  in  his  hand  to  scan  that  face  again.  He 
was  lying  sideways  on  the  pillow,  his  hollow  breath 
echoing  through  the  room.  The  light  caused  him 
V  to  open  his  eyes.  "Don't  papa,  please.  I  like  it 
dark." 

"Only  for  one  moment,  my  precious  boy."  And  not 
for  more  than  a  moment  did  Mr.  Carlyle  hold  it.  The 
blue,  pinched,  ghastly  look  was  there  yet.  Death  was 
certainly  coming  on  quick. 

At  that  moment,  Lucy  and  Archibald  came  in,  on 
their  return  from  their  visit  to  Miss  Carlyle.  The 
dying  boy  looked  up  eagerly.  "Good-by,  Lucy/*  he 
said,  putting  out  his  cold,  damp  hand. 

"I  am  not  going  out,"  replied  Lucy.  "We  have 
just  come  home." 

"Good-by,  Lucy,"  repeated  he. 

She  laid  hold  of  the  little  hand  then,  leaned  over, 
and  kissed  him.  "Good-by,  William;  but  indeed  I  am 
not  going  out  anywhere." 

"I  am,"  said  he.  "I  am  going  to  Heaven.  Where's 
Archie?" 

Mr.  Carlyle  lifted  Archie  on  to  the  bed.  Lucy 
looked  frightened;  Archie  surprised. 

"Archie,  good-by;  good-by,  dear.  I  am  going  to 
Heaven ;  to  that  bright  blue  sky,  you  know.  I  shall 
see  mamma  there,  and  I'll  tell  her  that  you  and  Lucy 
are  coming  soon." 

Lucy,  a  sensitive  child,  broke  into  a  loud  storm  of 
sobs,  enough  to  disturb  the  equanimity  of  any  sober 
sick-room.  Wilson  hastened  in  at  the  sound,  and  Mr. 
Carlyle   sent  the  two  children  away,  with  soothing 


EAST  LYNNE  387 

promises  that  they  should  see  WiUiam  in  the  morning, 
if  he  continued  well  enough. 

Down  on  her  knees,  her  face  buried  in  the  counter- 
pane, a  corner  of  it  stuffed  into  her  mouth  that  it 
might  help  to  stifle  her  agony,  knelt  Lady  Isabel. 
The  moment's  excitement  was  well-nigh  beyond  her 
strength  of  endurance.  Her  own  child;  his  child; 
they  alone  around  its  death-bed,  and  she  might  not 
ask  or  receive  from  him  a  word  of  comfort,  of  consola- 
tion. 

Mr.  Carlyle  glanced  at  her  as  he  caught  her  choking 
sobs — just  as  he  would  have  glanced  at  any  other 
attentive  governess — feeling  her  sympathy,  doubtless, 
but  nothing  more;  she  was  not  heart  and  part  with 
him  and  his  departing  boy.  Lower  and  lower  bent  he 
over  that  boy,  for  his  eyes  were  wet. 

"Don't  cry,  papa,"  Vv^hispered  William,  raising  his 
feeble  hand  caressingly  to  his  father's  cheek.  "I  am 
not  afraid  to  go.     Jesus  is  coming  for  me. " 

''Afraid  to  go!  Indeed  I  hope  not,  my  gentle  boy. , 
You  are  going  to  God;  to  happiness.  A  few  years,  ' 
we  know  not  how  few,  and  we  shall  all  come  toj 
you. " 

"Yes,  you  will  be  sure  to  come;  1  know  that.  I  will 
tell  mamma  so.  I  dare  say  she  is  looking  out  for  me 
now.  Perhaps  she's  standing  on  the  banks  of  the 
river,  watching  the  boats." 

He  had  evidently  got  that  picture  of  Martin's  in  his 
mind,  the  Plains  of  Heaven.  Mr.  Carlyle  turned  to 
the  table.  He  saw  some  strawberry  juice,  pressed 
from  the  fresh  fruit,  and  moistened  with  it  the  boy's 
fevered  lips. 

"Papa,  I  can't  think  hov;  Jesus  can  be  in  all  the 
boats!  Perhaps  they  don't  go  quite  at  the  same  time? 
He  must  be,  you  know,  because  he  comes  to  fetch  us." 

"He  will  be  in  yours,  darling,"  was  the  whispered, 
fervent  answer. 

"Oh,  yes.  He  will  take  me  all  the  way  up  to  God, 
and  say,  'Here's  a  poor  little  boy  come,  and  you  must 
please  to  forgive  him  and  let  him  go  in  to  Heaven^ 


388  EAST  LYNNE 

because  I  died  for  him. '     Papa,  did  you  know  that 
mamma's  heart  broke?" 

A  caress  was  all  the  reply  Mr.  Carlyle  returned. 
William's  restlessness  of  body  appeared  to  be  extend- 
ing to  his  mind.     He  would  not  be  put  off. 

''Papa!  did  you  know  that  mamma's  heart  broke?" 
"William,  I  think  it  likely  that  your  poor  mamma's 
heart  did  break  ere  death  came.      But  let  us  talk  of 
you;  not  of  her.     Are  you  in  pain?" 

"I  can't  breathe;  I  can't  swallow.  I  wish  Joyce  was 
here. ' ' 

"She  will  not  be  long." 
/      The  boy  nestled  himself  in  his  father's  arms,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  appeared  to  be  asleep.      Mr.  Carlyle, 
1  after  a  while,  gently  laid  him  on  his  pillow,  watched 
^him,  and  then  turned  to  depart. 

r  "Oh,  papa,  papa!"  he  cried  out,  in  a  tone  of  painful 
i  entreaty,  opening  wide  his  yearning  eyes,  "say  good- 
\by  to  me!." 

Mr.  Carlyle's  tears  fell  upon  the  little  upturned 
face,  as  he  once  more  caught  it  to  his  breast. 

"My  darling,  papa  will  soon  be  back.  He  was  not 
going  to  leave  you  for  more  than  an  hour.  He  is 
going  to  bring  mamma  to  see  you." 
"And  pretty  little  baby  Anna?" 
"And  baby  Anna,  if  you  would  like  her  to  come  in. 
1  will  not  leave  you  again  to-night,  William,  when 
once  1  am  back." 

"Then  put  me  down,  and  go,  papa." 
A  lingering  embrace — a  fond,  lingering,  tearful 
embrace,  Mr.  Carlyle  holding  him  to  his  beating  heart. 
Then  he  laid  him  comfortably  on  his  pillow,  gave 
him  a  teaspoonful  of  strawberry  juice,  and  hastened 
awa3^ 

"Good-by,  papa,"  came  forth  the  little  feeble  cry. 

It  was  not   heard.     Mr.   Carlyle  was  gone.     Gone 

from  his  living  child — forever.     Up  rose  Lady  Isabel, 

'  and  flung  her  arms  aloft  in  a  storm  of  sobs.     "Oh, 

!  William,  darling,  in  this  dying  moment  let  me  be  to 

\  you  as  your  mother?" 


EAST  LYNNE  389 

Again  he  unclosed  his  weary  eyelids.  It  is  probable 
that  he  only  partially  understood. 

"Papa's  gone  for  her." 

"Not  her.  I — I — "Lady  Isabel  checked  herself, 
and  fell  sobbing  on  the  bed.  No;  not  even  at  that  last 
hour,  when  the  world  was  closing  on  him,  dared  she 
say,  I  am  your  mother. 

Wilson  re-entered.  *'He  looks  as  if  he  were  drop- 
ping off  to  sleep,"  quoth  she. 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Isabel.  "You  need  not  wait, 
Wilson.     I  will  ring  if  he  requires  anything." 

Wilson,  though  withal  not  a  bad-hearted  woman, 
was  no  one  to  remain  for  pleasure  in  a  sick-room,  if 
told  she  might  leave  it.  Lady  Isabel  remained  alone. 
She  fell  on  her  knees  again,  this  time  in  prayer — in 
prayer  for  the  departing  spirit  on  its  wing,  and  that 
God  would  mercifully  vouchsafe  herself  a  resting-place 
with  it  in  Heaven. 

A  review  of  the  past  then  rose  up  before  her — from 
the  time  of  her  first  entering  that  house,  the  bride  of 
Mr.  Carlyle,  to  her  present  sojourn  in  it.  The  old 
scenes  passed  through  her  mind  like  the  changing 
pictures  in  a  phantasmagoria.  Why  should  they  have 
come,  there  and  then?     She  knew  not. 

William  slept  on  silently;  she  thought  of  the  past.  / 
The  dreadful  reflection,  "If  I  had  not — done  as  I  did 
— how  different  would  it  have  been  now!"  had  been 
sounding  its  knell  in  her  heart  so  often  that  she  had 
almost  ceased  to  shudder  at  it  The  very  nails  of  her 
hands  had,  before  now,  entered  the  palms  with  the 
sharp  pain  it  brought.  Stealing  over  her  more  espe- 
cially this  night  as  she  knelt  there,  her  head  lying  on 
the  counterpane,  came  the  recollection  of  that  first  ill- 
ness of  hers.  How  she  had  lain,  and,  in  her  unfounded 
jealousy,  imagined  Barbara  the  house's  mistress.  She, 
dead;  Barbara  exalted  to  her  place,  Mr.  Carlyle's wife, 
her  child's  stepmother!  She  recalled  the  day  when, 
her  mind  excited  by  certain  gossip  of  Wilson's — it  was 
previously  in  a  state  of  fever  bordering  on  delirium — 
she  had  prayed  her  husband,  in  terror  and  anguish, 


390  EAST  LYNNE 

not  to  marry  Barbara.  "How  could  he  marry  her?'* 
he  had  replied,  in  his  soothing  pity.  *'vShe,  Isabel,  was 
his  wife— who  was  Barbara?  Nothing  to  them."  But 
it  had  all  come  to  pass.  .She  had  brought  it  forth. 
Not  Mr.  Carlyle;  not  Barbara;  she  alone.  Oh,  the 
dreadful  misery  of  the  retrospect. 

Lost  in  thought,  in  anguish  past  and  present,  in 
self-condemning  repentance,  the  time  passed  on. 
Nearly  an  hour  must  have  elapsed  since  Mr.  Carlyle's 
departure,  and  William  had  not  disturbed  her.  But — 
who  was  this  coming  into  the  room?     Joyce. 

She  hastily  rose  up,  as  Joyce,  advancing  with  a 
quiet  step,  drew  aside  the  clothes  to  look  at  William. 
"Master  says  he  has  been  wanting  me,"  she  observed. 
^' Why— oh!" 

It  was  a  sharp,  momentary  cry,  subdued  as  soon  as 
uttered.  Madame  Vine  sprang  forward  to  Joyce's 
side,  looking  also.  The  pale,  young  face  lay  calm  in 
its  utter  stillness;  the  busy  little  heart  had  ceased  to 
beat.  Jesus  Christ  had  indeed  taken  the  fleeting 
spirit. 

Then  she  lost  all  self-control.  She  believed  that  she 
had  reconciled  herself  to  the  child's  death,  that  she 
could  part  with  him  without  too  great  emotion.  But 
she  had  not  anticipated  it  would  be  quite  so  soon;  she 
had  deemed  that  some  hours  more  would  at  least  be 
given  him,  and  now  the  storm  overwhelmed  her. 
Crying,  sobbing,  calling,  she  flung  herself  upon  him ; 
she  clasped  him  to  her;  she  dashed  off  her  disguising 
glasses;  she  laid  her  face  upon  his,  beseeching  him  to 
come  back  to  her  that  she  might  say  farewell;  to  her, 
his  mother;  her  darling  child,  her  lost  William. 

Joyce  was  terrified;  terrified  for  consequences.  With 
her  full  strength  she  pulled  her  from  her  boy,  praying 
her  to  consider;  to  be  still.  "Do  not,  do  not,  for  the 
love  of  Heaven!  My  lady!  my  lady!"  It  was  the  old 
familiar  title  that  struck  upon  her  fears  and  induced 
calmness.  She  stared  at  Joyce,  and  retreated  back- 
ward, after  the  manner  of  one  receding  from  some 
hideous  vision. 


EAST  LYNNE  391 

"My  lady,  let  me  take  you  into  your  room.  Mr. 
Carlyle  is  come;  he  is  just  bringing  up  his  wife.  Only 
think  if  you  should  give  way  before  him!  Pray,  come 
away!" 

''How  did  you  know  me?"  she  asked,  in  a  hollow 
voice. 

"My  lady,  it  was  that  night  when  there  was  an  alarm  i 
of  fire.  I  went  close  up  to  you  to  take  Master  Archi- 
bald from  your  arms ;  and,  as  sure  as  I  am  standing 
here,  I  believe  that  for  the  moment  my  senses  left  me.  j 
I  thought  I  saw  a  specter;  the  specter  of  my  dead  lady,  j 
I  forgot  the  present;  I  forgot  that  all  were  standing; 
round  me;  that  you,  Madame  Vine,  were  still  before/ 
me.  Your  face  was  not  disguised  then;  the  moonlight 
shone  full  upon  it,  and  I  knew  it,  after  the  first  few 
moments  of  terror,  to  be,  in  dreadful  truth,  the  living 
one  of  Lady  Isabel.  My  lady,  come  away!  we  shall 
have  Mr.  Carlyle  here." 

Poor  thing!  She  sank  upon  her  knees,  in  her 
humility,  her  dread.  "Oh,  Joyce,  have  pity  on  me! 
don't  betray  me!  I  will  leave  the  house;  indeed  I  will. 
Don't  betray  me  while  I  am  in  it." 

"My  lady,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me.  I 
have  kept  the  secret  buried  within  my  breast  since 
then.  Last  April!  It  has  nearly  been  too  much  for 
me.  By  night  and  by  day  I  have  had  no  peace,  dread- 
ing what  might  come  out.  Think  of  the  awful  confu- 
sion, the  consequences,  should  it  come  to  the  knowl- 
edge of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carlyle.  Indeed,  my  lady,  you 
never  ought  to  have  come." 

"Joyce,"  she  said  hollowly,  lifting  her  haggard  face, 
"I  could  not  keep  away  from  my  unhappy  children. 
Is  it  no  punishment  to  me,  think  you,  the  being  here?" 
she  added,  vehemently.  "To  see  him — my  husband — 
the  husband  of  another!     It  is  killing  me." 

"Oh,  my  lady,  come  away!  I  hear  him;  1  hear  him!" 

Partly  coaxing,  partly  dragging  her,  Joyce  took  her 
into  her  own  room,  and  left  her  there.  Mr.  Carlyle 
was  at  that  moment  at  the  door  of  the  sick  one.  Joyce 
sprang  forward.     Her  face,  in  her  emotion  and  fear, 


592  EAST  LYNNE 

was  of  one  livid  whiteness,  and  she  shook  as  William 
had  shaken,  poor  child,  in  the  afternoon.  It  was  only 
too  apparent  in  the  well-lighted  corridor. 

"Joyce,"  he  exclaimed  in  amazement,  "what  ails 
jrou?" 

"Sir!  master!"  she  panted,  "be  prepared.  Master 
William — Master  William " 

"Joyce!     Not  dead?" 

"Alas,  yes,  sir!" 

Mr.  Carlyle  strode  into  the  chamber.  But,  ere  he 
was  well  across  it,  turned  back  to  slip  the  bolt  of  the 
door.  On  the  pillow  lay  the  white,  thin  face,  at  rest 
now. 

"My  boy!  my  boy!  Oh  God!"  he  murmured,  in 
bowed  reverence,  "mayst  Thou  have  received  this 
child  to  his  rest  in  Jesus!  Even  as,  I  trust,  Thou 
hadst  already  received  his  unhappy  mother!" 


CHAPTER  LVII 

LORD  VANE  DATING  FORWARD 

To  the  funeral  of  William  Carlyle  came  Lord  Mount 
Severn  and  his  son.  Wilson  had  been  right  in  her  sur- 
mises as  to  the  resting-place.  The  Carlyle  vault  was 
opened  for  him,  and  an  order  went  forth  to  the  sculptor 
for  an  inscription  to  be  added  to  their  marble  tablet  in 
the  church:  "William  Vane  Carlyle,  eldest  son  of" 
Archibald  Carlyle,  of  East  Lynne. "  Amongst  those 
who  attended  the  funeral  as  mourners,  went  one  more 
notable  in  the  eyes  of  the  gazers  than  the  rest — Rich- 
ard Hare  the  younger. 

Lady  Isabel  was  ill.  Ill  in  mind,  and  ominously  ill 
in  body.  She  kept  her  room,  and  Joyce  attended  on 
her.  The  household  set  down  madame's  illness  to  the 
fatigue  of  having  attended  upon  Master  William;  it 
was  not  thought  of  seriously  by  any  one,  especially  as 
she  declined  to  see  a  doctor. 

She  was  nearer  to  death  than  she  imagined.      She 


EAST  LYNNE  393 

knew — judging  by  her  declining  streng^th  and  inner 
feelings — that  it  could  not  be  far  off;  but  she  did  not 
deem  that  it  was  coming  so  very  soon.  Her  mother 
had  died  in  a  similar  way.  Some  said  of  consumption 
■ — Dr.  Martin  said  so,  you  may  remember;  some  said 
of  "waste;"  the  earl,  her  husband,  said  of  a  broken 
heart — you  heard  him  say  so  to  Mr.  Carlyle  in  the  first 
chapter  of  this  history.  The  earl  was  the  one  who 
might  be  supposed  to  know  best.  Whatever  may  have 
been  Lady  Mount  Severn's  malady,  she — to  give  you 
the  phrase  that  was  in  people's  mouths  at  the  time — 
*'went  out  like  the  snuff  of  a  candle."  It  was  now  the 
turn  of  Lady  Isabel.  She  had  no  decided  disorder, 
yet  Death  had  marked  her.  She  felt  that  it  was  so; 
and  in  the  approach  of  death  she  dreaded  not,  as  she 
had  once  done,  the  consequences  that  must  ensue,  did 
discovery  come.  Which  brings  us  back  to  the  point 
whence  ensued  this  long  digression.  I  dare  say  you 
are  chafing  at  it,  but  it  is  not  often  I  trouble  you  with 
one. 

But  she  would  not  willingly  let  discovery  come; 
neither  had  she  the  least  intention  of  remaining  at  East 
Lynne  to  die.  Where  she  should  take  refuge  was 
quite  a  secondary  consideration;  only  let  her  get 
smoothly  and  plausibly  away.  Joyce,  in  her  dread, 
was  forever  urging  it.  Of  course  the  preliminary  step 
was,  to  arrange  matters  with  Mrs.  Carlyle,  and  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  day  following  the  funeral.  Lady 
Isabel  proceeded  to  her  dressing-room,  and  craved  an 
interview. 

Mr.  Carlyle  quitted  the  room  as  she  entered  it. 
Barbara,  fatigued  with  a  recent  drive,  was*  lying  on 
the  sofa. 

"We  shall  be  sorry  to  lose  you,  Madame  Vine!  You 
are  all  we  could  wish  for  Lucy;  and  Mr.  Carlyle  feels 
truly  grateful  for  your  love  and  attention  to  his  poor 
boy.  Would  you  like  to  go  to  the  sea-side?  I  am  going 
there  on  Monday  next;  Mr.  Carlyle  insists  upon  it 
that  I  try  a  little  change.  I  had  intended  only  to  take 
my  baby,  but  we  can  make  different  arrangements  and 


394  EAST  LYNNE 

take  you  and  LtlC3^       It  might  do  you  good,  Madame 
Vine." 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  it  would  make  me  worse. 
All  that  I  want  is  perfect  quiet.  I  must  beg  you  to 
understand  that  I  shall  leave.  And  I  should  be  glad 
if  you  could  allow  the  customary  notice  to  be  dispensed 
with,  so  that  T  may  be  at  liberty  to  depart  within  a 
few  days." 

*'Look  here,  then,"  said  Barbara,  after  a  pause  of 
consideration;  *'you  remain  at  East  Lynne  until  my 
return — which  will  be  in  a  fortnight.  Mr.  Carlyle 
cannot  stay  with  me,  so  I  know  I  shall  be  tired  in  less 
time  than  that.  Upon  my  return,  if  you  still  wish  to 
leave,  you  shall  then  be  at  liberty  to  do  so.  What  do 
you  say?" 

Madame  Vine  said  *'Yes."  Said  it  eagerly.  To 
ha^ve  another  fortnight  with  her  children,  Lucy  and 
Archibald,  was  very  like  a  reprieve,  and  she  embraced 
it.  Although  she  knew,  as  I  have  said,  that  grim 
Death  was  on  his  way,  she  did  not  think  he  had  drawn 
so  near  the  end  of  his  journey.  Her  thoughts  went 
back  to  the  time  when  she  had  been  ordered  to  the 
seaside  after  an  illness.  It  had  been  a  marvel  if  they 
had  not.  She  remembered  how  her  husband  had 
urged  the  change  upon  her;  how  he  had  taken  her 
traveling  carefully;  how  tenderly  anxious  he  had  been 
in  the  arrangements  for  her  comfort  when  settling  her 
in  the  lodgings;  how,  when  he  came  again  to  see  her,  he 
had  met  her  in  his  passionate  fondness,  thanking  God 
for  the  visible  improvement  in  her  looks.  That  one 
injunction,  which  she  had  called  him  back  to  give  him, 
as  he  was  departing  for  the  boat,  was  bitterly  present 
to  her  now:  "Do  not  get  making  love  to  Barbara 
Hare."  All  this  care  and  love  and  tenderness 
belonged  now  of  right  to  Barbara,  and  were  given  to 
her. 

"1  intend  Lucy  Carlyle  to  be  my  wife,  papa,"  said 
young  Vane  one  day.  "I  mean  in  earnest— when  we 
shall  both  be  grown  up.  If  you  will  approve,  and  Mr. 
Carlyle  will  give  her  to  me." 


EAST  LYNNE  395 

The  earl  looked  g:rave;  Mr.  Carlyle  amused.  "Sup- 
pose," said  the  latter,  *' we  adjourn  the  discussion  to 
this  day  ten  years." 

"But  that  Lucy  is  so  very  young  a  child,  I  should 
reprove  you  seriously,  sir,"  said  the  earl.  "You  have 
no  right  to  bring  Lucy's  name  into  any  such  absurdity. " 

"I  mean  it,  papa;  you'll  all  see.  And  I  intend  to 
keep  out  of  scrapes — that  is,  of  nasty,  dishonorable 
scrapes — on  purpose  that  Mr.  Carlyle  shall  find  no 
excuse  against  me.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  be 
what  he  is — a  man  of  honor.  I  am  right  glad  you 
know  about  it,  sir.  And  I  shall  let  mamma  know  it, 
before  long." 

The  last  sentence  tickled  the  earl's  fancy,  and  a 
grim  smile  passed  over  his  lips.  "It  will  be  war  to 
the  knife,  if  you  do.  " 

"I  know  that,"  laughed  the  viscount.  "But  I  am 
getting  a  better  match  for  mamma  in  our  battles  than 
I  used  to  be. " 

Madame  Vine,  when  the  corridor  became  empty 
again,  laid  her  hand  upon  the  boy's  arm,  as  he  was 
moving  away,  and  drew  him  to  the  window. 

"In  speaking,  as  you  do,  of  Lucy  Carlyle,  do  you 
forget  the  disgrace  reflected  on  her  through  the  con- 
duct of  her  mother?" 

"Her  mother  is  not  Lucy." 

"It  might  prove  an  impediment  with  Lord  and 
Lady  Mount  Severn." 

"Not  with  his  lordship.  And  I  must  do — as  you 
heard  me  say— battle  with  my  mother.  Conciliatory 
battle,  you  understand,  madame;  bringing  the  enemy 
to  reason." 

Madame  Vine  was  agitated.  She  held  her  handker- 
chief to  her  mouth,  and  the  boy  noticed  how  her  hands 
trembled. 

"I  have  learned  to  love  Lucy,"  said  she.  "It  has 
appeared  to  me,  in  these  few  months'  sojourn  with 
her,  that  I  have  stood  to  her  in  the  light  of  a  mother. 
William  Vane,"  she  solemnly  added,  keeping  her  hold 
upon  him,  "I  shall  soon  be  where  earthly  distinctions 


396  EAST  LYNNE 

are  no  more;  where  sin  and  sorrow  are  wiped  away. 
Should  Lucy  Carlyle  indeed  become  your  wife  in  after 
years,  never,  never,  cast  upon  her,  by  so  much  as 
the  slightest  word  of  reproach,  the  sin  of  Lady 
Isabel." 

Lord  Vane  threw  back  his  head,  his  honest  eyes 
flashing  in  their  indignant  earnestness. 

"What  do  you  take  me  for?" 

"It  v/ould  be  a  cruel  wrong  upon  Lucy.  She  does 
not  deserve  it.  That  unhappy  lady's  sin  was  all  her 
own;  let  it  die  with  her.  Never  speak  to  Lucy  of  her 
mother." 

The  lad  dashed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  for  they 
were  filling.  "I  shall.  I  shall  speak  to  her  often  of 
her  mother — that  is,  you  know,  after  she's  my  wife,  I 
shall  tell  how  I  loved  Lady  Isabel — that  there's  nobody 
I  ever  loved  so  much  in  the  world,  but  Lucy  herself. 
I  cast  a  reproach  to  Lucy  on  the  score  of  her  mother!" 
he  hotly  added.  "It  is  through  her  mother  that  I 
love  her.     You  don't  understand,  madame. " 

"Cherish  and  love  her  forever,  should  she  become 
yours,"  said  Lady  Isabel,  wringing  his  hand.  "I  ask 
this  as  one  who  is  dying." 

"I  will,  I  promise  it.  But,  I  say,  madame,"  he  con- 
tinued, dropping  his  fervent  tone,  "to  what  do  you 
allude?     Are  you  worse?" 

Madame  Vine  did  not  answer.  She  glided  away 
without  speaking.  When  she  was  sitting  that  evening 
by  twilight  in  the  gray  parlor,  cold  and  shivering,  and 
wrapped  up  in  a  shawl,  though  it  was  hot  summer 
weather,  somebody  knocked  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  cried  she,  apathetically. 

It  was  Mr.  Carlyle  who  entered.  She  rose  up,  her 
pulses  quickening,  her  heart  throbbing  against  her 
side.  In  her  wild  confusion  she  was  drawing  forward 
a  chair  for  him.  He  laid  his  hand  upon  it,  and 
motioned  her  to  her  own. 

"Mrs.  Carlyle  tells  me  that  you  have  been  speaking 
to  her  of  leaving — that  you  find  yourself  too  much 
out  of  health  to  continue  with  us," 


EAST  LYNNE  39? 

"Yes,  sir, "  she  faintly  replied,  having  a  most  imper- 
fect notion  of  what  she  did  say. 

''What  is  it  that  you  find  to  be  the  matter  with  you?" 

"I — think — it  is  chiefly  weakness,"  she  stammered. 

Her  face  had  grown  as  gray  as  the  walls.  A  dusky, 
livid  sort  of  hue,  not  unlike  that  which  William's  had 
worn  the  night  of  his  death,  and  her  voice  sounded 
strangely  hollow.  The  voice  struck  Mr.  Carlyle,  and 
awoke  his  fears. 

"You  cannot — you  never  can  have  caught  William's 
complaint,  in  your  close  attendance  on  him!"  he 
exclaimed,  speaking  in  the  impulse  of  the  moment, 
as  the  idea  flashed  across  him.  "I  have  heard  of  such 
things." 

"Caught  it  from  him!"  she  rejoined,  carried  away 
also  by  impulse.     "It  is  more  likely  that  he " 

She  stopped  herself  just  in  time.  "Inherited  it  from 
me,"  had  been  the  destined  conclusion.  In  her  alarm, 
she  went  off  volubly,  something  to  the  effect  that  "it 
was  no  wonder  she  was  ill;  illness  was  natural  to  her 
family. ' ' 

"At  any  rate,  you  have  become  ill  at  East  Lynne, 
in  attendance  on  my  children,"  rejoined  Mr.  Carlyle, 
decisively,  when  her  voice  died  away;  "you  must 
therefore  allow  me  to  insist  that  you  permit  East 
Lynne  to  do  what  it  can  toward  renovating  you. 
What  is  your  objection  to  see  a  doctor?" 

"A  doctor  could  do  me  no  good,"  she  faintly 
answered. 

"Certainly  not — so  long  as  you  will  not  consult  one.  " 

"Indeed,  sir,  doctors  could  not  cure  me.  Nor — as  I 
believe — prolong  my  life." 

Mr.  Carlyle  paused.  "Do  you  believe  yourself  to 
be  in  danger?" 

'-'Not  in  immediate  danger,  sir.  Only  in  so  far  that 
I  know  I  shall  not  live  long." 

"And  yet  you  will  not  see  a  doctor?  Madame  Vine, 
you  must  be  aware  that  I  could  not  permit  such  a 
thing  to  go  on  in  my  house.  Dangerous  illness  and 
no  advice!" 


398  EAST  LYNNE 

She  could  not  say  to  him  "My  malady  is  on  the 
mind;  it  is  a  breaking  heart,  and  therefore  no  doctor 
of  physic  could  serve  me."  That  would  never  do. 
She  had  sat  with  her  hand  across  her  face,  between 
her  spectacles  and  her  wrapped-up  chin.  Had  Mr. 
Carlyle  possessed  the  eyes  of  Argus,  he  could  not  have 
made  anything  of  her  features  in  the  broad  light  of 
day.  But  she  did  not  feel  so  sure  of  it.  There  was 
always  an  undefined  terror  of  discovery  Vv^hen  in  his 
presence,  and  she  wished  the  interview  at  an  end. 

"I  will  see  Mr.  Wainwright,  if  it  will  be  any  satis- 
faction to  you,  sir." 

"Madame  Vine,  I  have  intruded  upon  you  here,  to 
say  that  you  must  see  him.  And,  should  he  deem  it 
necessary.  Dr.  Martin  also." 

"Oh,  sir,"  she  rejoined,  with  a  curious  smile,  "Mr. 
Wainwright  will  be  quite  sufficient.  There  will  be 
no  need  of  another.  1  will  write  him  a  note  to-mor- 
row." 

"Spare  yourself  the  trouble.  I  am  going  into  West 
Lynne,  and  will  send  him  up.  You  will  permit  me  to 
urge  that  you  spare  no  pains  or  care — that  you  suffer 
my  servants  to  spare  no  pains  or  care  to  re-establish 
your  health.  Mrs.  Carlyle  tells  me  that  the  question 
of  your  leaving  remains  in  abeyance  until  her 
return " 

"Pardon  me,  sir.  The  understanding  with  Mrs. 
Carlyle  was,  that  I  should  remain  here  until  her  return, 
and  should  then  be  at  liberty  at  once  to  leave." 

"Exactly.  That  is  what  Mrs.  Carlyle  said.  But  1 
must  express  a  hope  that  by  that  time  j^ou  may  be 
feeling  so  much  better  as  to  reconsider  your  decision, 
and  continue  with  us.  For  my  daughter's  sake, 
Madame  Vine,  I  trust  that  it  will  be  so." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  held  out  his  hand.  What 
could  she  do  but  to  rise  also,  drop  hers  from  her  face, 
and  give  it  him  in  answer?  He  retained  it,  clasping 
it  warmly.  '  . 

"How  shall  I  repay  you — how  thank  you  for  your 
love  to  my  poor,  lost  boy?" 


EAST  LYNNE  399 

His  earnest,  tender  eyes  were  on  her  double  specta- 
cles; a  sad  smile  mingled  with  the  sweet  expression  of 
his  lips,  as  he  bent  toward  her — lips  that  had  once 
been  hers!  A  faint  exclamation  of  despair;  a  vivid 
glow  of  hot  crimson ;  and  she  caught  up  her  new  black 
silk  apron,  so  deeply  bordered  with  crape,  in  her  dis- 
engaged hand,  and  flung  it  up  to  her  face.  He  mis- 
took the  sound;  mistook  the  action. 

"Do  not  grieve  for  him.  He  is  at  rest.  Thank  you, 
thank  you  greatly  for  all  your  sympathy. "  Another 
wring  of  her  hand,  and  Mr.  Carlyle  had  quitted  the 
room.  She  laid  her  head  upon  the  table,  and  thought 
how  merciful  would  be  Death  when  he  should  come. 


CHAPTER   LVni 

UNTIL    ETERNITY 

Barbara  was  at  the  sea-side ;  and  Lady  Isabel  was  in 
her  bed,  dying.  You  remember  the  old  French  say- 
ing, ''L'homme propose ^  et Dieu dispose.'"  An  exemplifi- 
cation of  it  was  here. 

She,  Lady  Isabel,  had  consented  to  remain  at  East 
Lynne  during  Mrs.  Carlyle's  absence  on  purpose  that 
she  might  be  with  her  children.  But  the  object  was 
frustrated,  for  Lucy  and  Archibald  had  been  removed 
to  Miss  Carlyle's.  It  was  Mr.  Carlyle's  arrangement. 
He  thought  the  governess  dared  not  say,  Let  them 
stay  with  me.  Lady  Isabel  had  also  purposed  to  be 
safely  away  from  East  Lynne  before  the  time  came  for 
her  to  die;  but  that  time  had  advanced  with  giant 
strides,  and  the  period  for  removal  was  past.  She  was 
going  out  as  her  mother  had  gone,  rapidly,  unexpect- 
edly, "like  the  snuff  of  a  candle."  Wilson  was  in 
attendance  on  her  mistress;  Joyce  remained  at  home. 

Barbara  had  chosen  a  watering-place  near,  not  thirty 
miles  off,  so  that  Mr.  Carlyle  went  there  most  eve- 
nings, returning  to  his  office  in  the  mornings.  Thus  he 
saw  little  of  East  Lynne,  paying  it  only  one  or  two 
flying  visits.      From  the  Saturday  to  the  Wednesday 


400  EAST  LYNNE 

in  the  second  week  he  did  not  come  home  at  all ;  and 
it  was  in  those  few  days  that  Lady  Isabel  had  changed 
for  the  worse.  On  the  Wednesday  he  was  expected 
home  to  dinner  and  to  sleep. 

Joyce  was  in  a  state  of  frenzy— or  next  door  to  it. 
Lady  Isabel  was  dying,  and  what  could  become  of  the 
ominous  secret?  A  conviction,  born  of  her  fears,  was 
on  the  girl's  mind,  that,  with  death,  the  whole  must 
become  known ;  and  who  v/as  to  foresee  v/hat  blame 
might  not  be  cast  upon  her  by  her  master  and  mistress 
for  not  having  disclosed  it?  She  might  be  accused  of 
having  been  an  abettor  in  the  plot  from  the  first! 
Fifty  times  it  was  in  Joyce's  mind  to  send  for  Miss 
Carlyle  and  tell  her  all. 

The  afternoon  was  fast  waning,  and  the  spirit  of 
Lady  Isabel  seemed  to  be  waning  with  it.  Joyce  was 
in  the  room,  in  attendance  upon  her.  She  had  been  in 
a  fainting  state  all  day,  but  felt  better  now.  She  was 
partially  raised  in  bed  by  pillows,  a  white  cashmere 
shawl  over  her  shoulders,  her  night-cap  off,  to  allow 
as  much  air  as  possible  to  come  to  her,  and  the  win- 
dows stood  open. 

Footsteps  sounded  on  the  gravel  in  the  quiet  still- 
ness of  the  summer  air.  They  penetrated  even  to  her 
ear,  for  all  her  faculties  were  keen  yet.  Beloved  foot- 
steps; and  a  tinge  of  hectic  rose  to  her  cheeks.  Joyce, 
who  stood  at  the  window,  glanced  out.  It  was  Mr. 
Carlyle. 

"Joyce!"  came  forth  a  cry  from  the  bed,  sharp  and 
eager. 

Joyce  turned  round.     "My  lady?" 

"I  should  die  happier  if  I  might  see  him." 

"See  him!"  uttered  Joyce,  doubting  her  own  ears. 
"My  lady!     See  him?     Mr.  Carlyle?" 

"What  can  it  signify?  I  am  already  as  one  dead. 
Should  I  ask  it,  or  wish  it,  think  you,  in  rude  life? 
The  yearning  has  been  upon  me  for  days,  Joyce;  it  is 
keeping  death  away." 

^^  "It  could  not  be,  my  lady,"  was  the  decisive  answer. 
"It  must  not  be.     It  is  as  a  thing  impossible." 


EAST  LYNNE  401 

Lady  Isabel  burst  into  tears.  "I  can't  die  for  the 
trouble,"  she  wailed.  "You  keep  my  children  from 
me.  They  must  not  come,  you  say,  lest  I  betray 
myself.  Now  you  would  keep  my  husband.  Joyce, 
Joyce,  let  me  see  him." 

Her  husband !  Poor  thing!  Joyce  was  in  a  maze  of 
distress,  though  not  the  less  firm.  Her  eyes  were  wet 
with  tears;  but  she  believed  she  should  be  infringing 
her  allegiance  to  her  mistress,  did  she  bring  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  to  the  presence  of  his  former  wife;  altogether  it 
might  be  productive  of  nothing  but  confusion. 

A  knock  at  the  chamber  door.  Joyce  called  out, 
'*Come  in."  The  two  maids,  Hannah  and  Sarah,  were 
alone  in  the  habit  of  coming  into  the  room,  and  neither 
of  them  had  ever  known  Madame  Vine  as  Lady  Isabel. 
Sarah  put  in  her  head. 

'* Master  wants  you,  Mrs.  Joyce." 

"I'll  come." 

"He  is  in  the  dining-room.  I  have  just  taken  down 
Master  Arthur  to  him." 

Mr.  Carlyle  had  got  "Master  Arthur"  on  his 
shoulder  when  Joyce  entered.  Master  Arthur  was 
decidedly  given  to  noise  and  rebellion,  and  was 
already,  as  Wilson  expressed  it,  "sturdy  upon  his 
pins." 

"How  is  Madame  Vine,  Joyce?" 

Joyce  scarcely  knew  how  to  answer.  But  she  did 
not  dare  equivocate  as  to  her  precarious  state.  And 
where  the  use,  when  a  few  hours  would  probably  see 
the  end  of  it? 

"She  is  very  ill  indeed,  sir." 

"Worse?" 

"Sir,  I  fear  she  is  dying." 

Mr.  Carlyle,  in  his  consternation,  put  down  Arthur. 
"Dying?" 

"I  hardly  think  she  will  last  till  morning,  sir." 

"Why,  what  has  killed  her?"  he  uttered  in  amaze- 
ment. 

Joyce  did  not  answer.  She  looked  pale  and  con- 
fused. 

26  Lynne 


402  EAST  LYNNE 

"Have  you  had  Dr.  Martin?*' 

"Oh,  no,  sir.     It  would  be  of  no  use." 

"No  use!"  repeated  Mr.  Carlyle,  in  a  sharp  accent. 
"Is  that  the  way  to  treat  dying  people?  Assume  it 
is  of  no  use  to  send  for  advice,  and  so  quietly  let  them 
die!  If  Madame  Vine  is  as  ill  as  you  say,  a  tele- 
graphic message  must  be  sent  off  at  once.  I  had  better 
see  her,"  he  said,  moving  to  the  door. 

Joyce,  in  her  perplexity,  dared  to  place  her  back 
against  it,  preventing  his  egress.  "Oh,  master! — I 
beg  your  pardon,  but — but — it  would  not  be  right. 
Please,  sir,  do  not  think  of  going  into  her  room!" 

Mr.  Carlyle  thought  that  Joyce  had  taken  a  fit  of 
prudery.  "Why  can't  I  go  in?"  he  asked.  "Mrs. 
Carlyle  would  not  like  it,  sir,"  stammered  Joyce,  her 
cheeks  scarlet  now.  Mr.  Carlyle  stared  at  her. 
"Some  of  you  take  up  odd  ideas,"  he  cried.  "In  Mrs. 
Carlyle 's  absence  it  is  necessary  that  some  one  should 
see  her.  Let  a  lady  die  in  my  house,  and  never  see 
after  her?  You  are  out  of  your  senses,  Joyce.  I  shall 
go  in  after  dinner;  so  prepare  Madame  Vine." 

The  dinner  was  being  brought  in  then.  Joyce,  feel- 
ing like  one  in  a  nervous  attack,  picked  up  Arthur  and 
carried  him  to  Sarah,  in  the  nursery.  What  on  earth 
was  she  to  do? 

Scarcely  had  Mr.  Carlyle  begun  his  dinner,  when 
his  sister  entered.  Some  grievance  had  arisen  between 
her  and  the  tenants  of  certain  houses  of  hers,  and  she 
was  bringing  the  dispute  to  him.  Before  he  would 
hear  it,  he  begged  her  to  go  up  to  Madame  Vine,  tell- 
ing her  what  Joyce  had  said  of  her  state. 

"Dying!"  ejaculated  Miss  Corny,  in  disbelieving 
derision.  "That  Joyce  has  been  more  like  a  simpleton 
lately  than  like  herself.  I  can't  think  what  has  come 
to  the  woman." 

She  took  off  her  bonnet  and  mantle,  and  laid  them 
on  a  chair,  gave  a  twitch  or  two  to  her  cap,  as  she 
surveyed  it  in  the  pier-glass,  and  went  upstairs.  Joyce 
answered  her  knock  at  the  invalid's  door;  and  Joyce, 
when  she  saw  who  it  was,  turned  as  white  as  any  sheet. 


EAST  LYNNE  403 

•*Oh,  ma'am!  j'-ou  must  not  come  in!"  she  blundered 
out,  in  her  confusion  and  fear,  as  she  put  herself  right 
in  the  doorway. 

'*Who  is  to  keep  me  out?"  demanded  Miss  Carlyle, 
after  a  pause  of  surprise,  her  tone  one  of  quiet  power. 
"Move  away,  girl.  Joyce,  I  think  your  brain  must  be 
softening.     What  will  you  try  at  next?" 

Joyce  was  powerless,  both  in  right  and  strength, 
and  she  knew  it.  She  knew  there  was  no  help,  that 
Miss  Carlyle  would  and  must  enter.  She  stood  aside, 
shivering,  and  passed  out  of  the  room  as  soon  as  Miss 
Carlyle  was  within  it. 

Ah!  there  could  no  longer  be  concealment  now  11 
There  she  was,  her  pale  face  lying  against  the  pillow, 
free  from  its  disguising  trappings.  The  band  of  gray 
velvet,  the  spectacles,  the  wraps  for  the  throat  and; 
chin,  the  huge  cap,  all  were  gone.  It  was  the  face  of- 
Lady  Isabel — changed,  certainly,  very,  very  much;j 
but  still  hers.  The  silvered  hair  fell  on  either  side  of, 
her  face,  as  the  silky  curls  had  once  fallen;  the  sweet, 
sad  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  yore. 

"Mercy  be  good  to  us!"  uttered  Miss  Carlyle. 

They  remained  gazing  at  each  other,  both  panting 
with  emotion — yes,  even  Miss  Carlyle.  Though  a  wild 
suspicion  had  once  crossed  her  mind  that  Madamei 
Vine  might  be  Lady  Isabel,  it  had  died  away  again,-  / 
from  the  sheer  improbability  of  the  thing,  as  much  aai^^ 
from  the  convincing  proofs  offered  by  Lord  Mount 
Severn.  Not  but  what  Miss  Carlyle  had  borne  in  mind, 
the  suspicion,  and  had  been  fond  of  tracing  the  like- 
ness in  Madame  Vine's  face. 

"How  could  you  dare  come  back  here?"  she  asked, 
her  tone  one  of  sad,  soft  wailing;  not  of  reproach. 
Lady  Isabel  humbly  crossed  her  attenuated  hands  upon 
her  chest.  "My  children,"  she  whispered;  "how 
could  I  stay  away  from  them?  Have  pity.  Miss  Car- 
lyle! Don't  reproach  me!  I  am  on  my  way  to  God, 
to  answer  for  all  my  sins  and  sorrows." 

"I  do  not  reproach  you,"  said  Miss  Carlyle. 

**I  am  so  glad  to  go,"  she  continued  to  murmur,  her 


i04  EAST  LYNNE 

eyes  full  of  tears.     "Jesus  did  not  come,  you  know,  to 

save  the  good,  like  you;   He  came  for  the  sake  of  us 

i     poor  sinners.     I  tried  to  take  up  my  cross,  as  He  bade 

'     us,  and  bear  it  bravely  for  His  sake,  but  its  weight 

has  killed  me." 

The  good,  like  you!  Humbly,  meekly,  deferentially, 
was  it  expressed,  in  all  good  faith  and  trust,  as  though 
Miss  Corny  were  a  sort  of  upper  angel.  Somehow 
the  words  grated  on  Miss  Corny 's  ear;  grated  fiercely 
on  her  conscience.  It  came  into  her  mind,  then,  as  ^le 
stood  there,  that  the  hard  religion  she  had  through 
life  professed  was  not  the  religion  that  would  best 
bring  peace  to  her  dying  bed. 

"Child,"  she  said,  drawing  near  to  and  leaning  over 
Lady  Isabel,  "had  I  anything  to  do  with  sending  you 
from  East  Lynne?" 

Lady  Isabel  shook  her  head  and  cast  down  her  gaze, 
as  she  whispered:  "You  did  not  send  me;  you  did  not 
help  to  send  me.  I  was  not  very  happy  with  you,  but 
that  was  not  the  cause  of — of  my  going  away.  For- 
give me.  Miss  Carlyle,  forgive  me!" 

"Thank    God!"    inwardly  breathed    Miss    Corny. 

\:  "Forgive    me,"    she    said,   aloud,    and  in    agitation, 

•touching  her  hand.       "I  could  have  made  your  home 

happier,  and  I  wish  1  had  done  it.       I  have  wished  it 

ever  since  you  left  it." 

Lady  Isabel  drew  the  hand  in  hers.  "I  want  to  see 
Archibald,"  she  whispered,  going  back,  in  thought, 
to  the  old  time  and  tlie  old  name.  "I  have  prayed 
Joyce  to  bring  him  to  me,  and  she  will  not.  Only  for 
a  minute !  just  to  hear  him  say  he  forgives  me !  What 
can  it  matter,  now  that  I  am  as  one  lost  to  this  world? 
I  should  die  easier." 

Upon  what  impulse  or  grounds  Miss  Carlyle  saw  fit 
to  accede  to  the  request,  cannot  be  told.  Possibly 
she  did  not  choose  to  refuse  a  death-bed  prayer,  pos- 
sibly she  reasoned  as  did  Lady  Isabel— what  could  it 
matter?  She  went  to  the  door.  Joyce  was  in  the  cor- 
ridor, leaning  against  the  wall,  her  apron  up  to  her 
eyes. 


EAST  LYNNE  405 

"How  long  have  you  known  of  this?" 

''vSince  that  night  in  the  spring,  when  there  was  an 
alarm  of  fire.  I  saw  her  then  with  nothing  on  her 
face,  and  knew  her,  though,  at  the  first  moment,  I 
thought  it  was  a  ghost.  Ma'am,  I  have  just  gone 
about  since  like  a  ghost  myself,  from  the  fear." 

"Go  and  request  your  master  to  come  up  to  me." 

"Oh,  ma'am!  Will  it  be  well  to  tell  him?"  remon- 
strated Joyce.      "Well  that  he  should  see  her?" 

"Go  and  request  your  master  to  come  to  me," 
unequivocally  repeated  Miss  Carlyle.  "Are  you  mis- 
tress, Joyce,  or  am  I?" 

Joj^ce  went  down  and  brought  Mr.  Carlyle  up  from 
the  dinner- table.  "Is  Madame  Vine  worse,  Cornelia? 
Will  she  see  me?" 

"She  wishes  to  see  you." 

Miss  Carlyle  opened  the  door  as  she  spoke.  He 
motioned  to  her  to  pass  in  first.  "No,"  she  said, 
"you  had  better  see  her  alone."  He  was  going  in, 
when  Joyce  caught  his  arm.  "Master!  master!  you 
ought  to  be  prepared.       Ma'am,  won't  you  tell  him?" 

He  looked  at  them,  thinking  they  must  be  moon- 
struck, for  their  conduct  seemed  inexplicable.  Both 
were  in  evident  agitation — an  emotion  Miss  Carlyle 
was  not  given  to.  Her  face  and  lips  were  twitching, 
but  she  kept  a  studied  silence.  Mr.  Carlyle  knitted 
his  brow,  and  went  into  the  chamber.  They  shut  him 
in. 

He  walked  gently  at  once  to  the  bed,  in  his  straight- 
forward manner.     "1  am  grieved,  Madame  Vine " 

The  words  failed  on  his  tongue.  Did  he  think,  as 
Joyce  had  once  done,  that  it  was  a  ghost  he  saw? 
Certain  it  is  that  his  face  and  lips  turned  the  hue  of 
death,  and  he  backed  a  few  steps  from  the  bed,  though 
he  was  as  little  given  to  show  emotion  as  man  can  well 
be.  The  falling  hair,  the  sweet,  mournful  eyes,  the 
hectic  which  his  presence  brought  to  her  cheeks,  told 
too  plainly  of  the  Lady  Isabel. 

"Archibald!" 

She  put  out  her  trembling  hand.      She  caught  him 


I 


406  EAST  LYNNE 

ere  he  had  drawn  quite  beyond  her  reach.  He  looked 
at  her,  he  looked  round  the  room,  as  does  one  awak- 
ing from  a  dream!  "1  could  not  die  without  your  for- 
giveness," she  murmured,  her  eyes  falling  before  him 
as  she  thought  of  her  past  sin.  "Do  not  turn  from  me ! 
bear  with  me  a  little  minute !  Only  say  you  forgive 
me,  and  I  shall  die  in  peace." 

•'Isabel!  Are  you — are  you— were  you  Madame 
Vine?"  he  cried,  scarcely  conscious  of  what  he  said. 

*'Oh,  forgive  me,  forgive  me!  I  did  not  die.  I  got 
well  from  that  accident,  but  it  changed  me  dreadfully; 
nobody  knew  me,  and  I  came  here  as  Madame  Vine. 
I  could  not  stay  away.     Archibald,  forgive  me!" 

His  mind  was  in  a  whirl,  his  wits  were  scared  away. 
The  first  clear  thought  that  came  thumping  through 
his  brain  was  that  he  was  a  man  of  two  wives.  She 
noticed  his  perplexed  silence. 

"I  could  not  stay  away  from  you  and  from  my  chil- 
dren. The  longing  for  you  was  killing  me,"  she 
reiterated,  wildly,  like  one  talking  in  a  fever.  *'I 
never  knew  a  moment's  peace  after  the  mad  act  I  was 
guilty  of,  quitting  you.  Not  an  hour  had  I  departed, 
when  my  repentance  set  in ;  and  even  then  I  would 
have  retracted  and  come  back,  but  I  did  not  know 
how.  See  what  it  has  done  for  me!"  tossing  up  her 
'gray  hair,  holding  out  her  attenuated  wrists.  "Oh, 
i  forgive,  forgive  me!  My  sin  was  great,  but  my  pun- 
'  ishment  was  greater.  It  has  been  as  one  long  scene 
W  mortal  agony." 

"Why  did  you  go?"  asked  Mr  Carlyle. 

"Did  you  not  know?" 

"No.     It  has  always  been  a  mystery  to  me." 

"I  went  out  of  love  for  you. " 

A  shade  of  disdain  crossed  his  lips.  Was  she  equiv- 
ocating to  him  on  her  death-bed? 

"Do  not  look  in  that  way,"  she  panted.  "My 
strength  is  nearly  gone;  you  must  perceive  that  it  is: 
and  I  do  not,  perhaps,  express  myself  clearly.  I  loved 
you  dearly,  and  I  grew  suspicious  of  you.  '  I  thought 
you  were  false  and  deceitf uj  to  me ;  that  your  love  was 


EAST  LYNNE  407 

all  given  to  another;  and,  in  my  sore  jealousy,  I  lis- 
tened to  the  temptings  of  that  bad  man,  who  whis- 
pered to  me  of  revenge.     It  was  not  so,  was  it?' ' 

Mr.  Carlyle  had  regained  his  calmness;  outwardly, 
at  any  rate.  He  stood  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  looking 
down  upon  her,  his  arms  crossed  upon  his  chest,  and 
his  noble  form  raised  to  its  full  height. 

'*Was  it  so?"  she  feverishly  repeated. 

"Can  you  ask  it? — knowing  me  as  you  did  then,  as 
you  must  have  known  me  since?  I  never  was  false  to 
you  in  thought,  in  word,  or  in  deed." 

"Oh,  Archibald,  I  was  mad,  I  was  mad!  I  could 
not  have  done  it  in  anything  but  madness.  Surely 
you  will  forget  and  forgive!" 

"I  cannot  forget.     I  have  already  forgiven." 

"Try  and  forget  the  dreadful  time  that  has  passed 
since  that  night!"  she  continued,  the  tears  falling  on 
her  cheeks,  as  she  held  up  to  him  one  of  her  poor  hot 
hands.  "Let  your  thoughts  go  back  to  the  days  when 
you  first  knew  me ;  when  I  was  here,  Isabel  Vane,  a 
happy  girl,  with  my  father.  At  times  I  have  lost 
myself  in  a  moment's  happiness  thinking  of  it.  Do 
you  remember  how  you  grew  to  love  me,  though  you 
thought  you  might  not  tell  it  me? — and  how  gentle 
you  were  with  me  when  papa  died? — and  the  hundred- 
pound  note?  Do  you  remember  coming  to  Castle 
Marling,  and  my  promising  to  be  your  wife? — and  the 
first  kiss  you  left  upon  my  lips?  And  oh,  Archibald! 
do  you  remember  the  loving  days  after  I  was  your 
wife? — how  happy  we  were  with  each  other?  Do  you 
remember,  when  Lucy  was  born,  we  thought  I  should 
have  died;  and  your  joy,  your  thankfulness  that  God 
restored  me?     Do  you  remember  all  this?" 

'  Ay.  He  did  remember  it.  He  took  that  poor  hand 
into  his,  retaining  there  its  wasted  fingers.  "Have 
you  any  reproach  to  cast  to  me?"  he  gently  said,  bend- 
ing his  head  a  little. 

"Reproach  to  you!  To  you  who  must  be  almost 
without  reproach  in  the  sight  of  Heaven!  you,  who 
were  ever  loving:  to  me,  ever  anxious  for  my  welfare! 


408  EAST  LYNNE 

When  I  think  of  what  you  were  and  are,  and  how  1 

requitted  you,  I  could  sink  into  the  earth  with  remorse 

I  and  shame.      My  own  sin  I  have  surely  expiated;  I 

^cannot  expiate  the  shame  I  entailed  upon  you  and  upon 

lour  children." 

Never.  He  felt  it  as  keenly  now  as  he  had  felt  it 
then. 

*' Think  what  it  has  been  for  me!"  she  resumed;  and 
he  was  obliged  to  bend  his  ear  to  catch  her  gradually 
weakening  tones.  *'To  live  in  this  house  with  your 
wife;  to  see  your  love  for  her;  to  watch  the  envied 
caresses  that  once  were  mine !  1  never  loved  you  so 
passionately  as  I  have  done  since  I  lost  you.  Think 
what  it  was,  to  watch  William's  decaying  strength ;  to 
be  alone  with  you  in  his  dying  hour  and  not  be  able  to 
say  he  is  my  child  as  well  as  yours.  When  he  lay 
dead,  and  the  news  went  forth  to  the  household,  it 
was  her  pretty  grief  you  soothed,  not  mine;  mine,  his 
mother.  God  alone  knows  how  I  have  lived  through 
it;  it  has  been  to  me  as  the  bitterness  of  death." 

**Why  did  you  come  back?"  was  the  response  of  Mr. 
Carlyle. 

"I  have  told  you.  I  could  not  live  away  from  you 
and  my  children." 

**It  was  wrong — wrong  in  all  ways." 

"Wickedly  wrong.  You  cannot  think  worse  of  it 
than  I  have  done.  But  the  consequences  and  the  pun- 
ishment would  be  mine  alone,  so  long  as  I  guarded 
against  discovery.  I  never  thought  to  stop  here  to 
die ;  but  death  seems  to  have  come  upon  me  with  a 
leap,  as  it  came  to  my  mother." 

A  pause  of  labored  breathing.  Mr.  Carlyle  did  not 
interrupt  it. 

"All  wrong,  all  wrong,"  she  resumed;  "this  inter- 
view with  you  amongst  the  rest.  And  yet— 1  hardly 
know.  It  cannot  hurt  the  new  ties  you  have  formed, 
'^'  for  1  am  as  one  dead  now  to  this  world,  hovering  on 
the  brink  of  the  next.  But  you  were  my  husband, 
Archibald;  and  the  last  few  days  I  have  longed  for 
your  forgiveness  with  a  fevered  longing.     Oh,  that  the 


EAST  LYNNE  409 

past  could  be  blotted  out!  tliat  1  could  wake  up  and 
find  it  but  a  hideous  dream;  that  I  were  here,  as  in 
the  old  days,  in  health  and  happiness,  your  ever-loving 
wife!  Do  you  wish  it — that  the  dark  past  had  never 
had  place?" 

She  put  the  question  in  a  sharp,  eager  tone,  gazing 
up  to  him  with  an  anxious  gaze,  as  though  the  answer 
must  be  one  of  life  or  death.  "For  your  sake  I  wish 
it."  Calm  enough  were  the  words  spoken;  and  her 
eyes  fell  again,  and  a  deep  sigh  came  forth. 

*'I  am  going  to  William.  But  Lucy  and  Archibald 
will  be  left.  Oh,  be  ever  kind  to  them,  I  pray  you! 
Visit  not  their  mother's  sin  upon  their  heads!  Do  not, 
in  your  love  for  your  later  children,  lose  your  love  for 
them!" 

"Hav^  you  seen  anything  in  my  conduct  that  could 
give  rise  to  fears  of  this?"  he  returned,  reproach 
mingling  in  his  sad  tone.  "The  children  are  dear  to 
me  as  you  once  were." 

"As  I  once  was.    Ay!    And  I  might  have  been  now. " 

"Indeed  you  might,"  he  answered,  with  emotion. 

"Archibald,  1  am  on  the  very  threshold  of  the  next 
world.  Will  you  not  bless  me?  Will  you  not  say  a  word 
of  love  to  me  before  I  pass  it?  Let  what  I  am  be 
blotted  for  the  moment  from  your  memory;  think  of 
me  as  the  innocent,  timid  child,  whom  you  made  your 
wife.  Only  a  word  of  love— my  heart  is  breaking 
for  it!" 

He  leaned  over  her,  he  pushed  aside  the  hair  from 
her  brow  with  his  gentle  hand,  his  tears  dropping  on 
her  face.     "You  nearly  broke  mine  when  you  left  me, ! 
Isabel,"  he  whispered.     "May  God  bless  you  and  takej 
you  to  His  rest  in  Heaven!     May  He  so  deal  with  me, ! 
as  I  now  fully  and  freely  forgive  you!" 

Lower  and  lower  he  bent  "his  head,  until  his  breath 
nearly  mingled  with  hers.  But  suddenly  his  face  grew 
red  with  a  scarlet  flush,  and  he  lifted  it  again.  Did 
the  form  of  one,  then  in  a  felon's  cell  at  Lynne- 
borough,  thrust  itself  before  him — or  that  of  his 
absent  and  unconscious  wife? 


410  EAST  LYNNE 

"To  His  rest  in  Heaven,"  she  murmured,  in  the 
hollow  tones  of  the  departing.  "Yes,  yes;  I  know  that 
God  has  forgiven  me.  Oh,  what  a  struggle  it  has 
been!  Nothing  but  bad  feelings — rebellion,  and 
sorrow,  and  repining — for  a  long  while  after  I  came 
back  here ;  but  Jesus  prayed  for  me  and  helped  me ; 
and  you  know  how  merciful  He  is  to  the  weary  and 
heavy-laden.  We  shall  meet  again,  Archibald,  and 
live  together  forever  and  forever.  But  for  that  great 
hope  I  could  hardly  die.  William  said  mamma  would 
be  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  looking  out  for  him;  but 
it  is  William  who  is  looking  for  me. " 

Mr.  Carlyle  released  one  of  his  hands;  she  had  taken 
them  both;  and,  with  his  own  handkerchief,  wiped  the 
death  dew  from  her  forehead. 

"It  is  no  sin  to  anticipate  it,  Archibald.  For  there 
will  be  no  marrying  or  giving  in  marriage  in  Heaven; 
Christ  has  said  so.  Though  we  do  not  know  it  will 
be.  My  sin  will  be  remembered  no  more  there,  and 
we  shall  be  together  with  our  children  forever  and 
forever.  Keep  a  little  corner  in  3^our  heart  for  your 
poor  lost  Isabel." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  whispered. 

"Are  you  leaving  me?"  she  uttered,  in  a  wild  tone 
of  pain. 

"You  are  growing  faint,  I  perceive.  I  must  call 
assistance." 

"Farewell,  then;  farewell,  until  eternity,"  she 
sighed,  the  tears  raining  from  her  eyes.  "It  is  death, 
I  think;  not  faintness.  Oh,  but  it  is  hard  to  part! 
Farewell,  farewell,  my  once  dear  husband!" 

She  raised  her  head  from  the  pillow,  excitement 
giving  her  strength;  she  clung  to  his  arm;  she  lifted 
her  face  in  its  sad  yearning.  Mr.  Carlyle  laid  her 
tenderly  down  again,  and  suffered  his  lips  to  rest  upon 
hers.  "Until  eternity,"  he  whispered.  She  followed 
him  with  her  eyes  as  he  retreated,  and  watched  him 
from  the  room;  then  turned  her  face  to  the  wall.  "It 
is  over.     Only  God  now." 

Mr.  Carlyle  took  an  instant's  counsel  with  himself, 


EAST  LYNNE  411 

stopping  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  to  do  it.  Joyce,  in 
obedience  to  a  sign  from  him,  had  already  gone  into 
the  sick-chamber;  his  sister  was  standing  at  its  door. 

"Cornelia." 

She  followed  him  down  into  the  dining-room. 

"You  will  remain  here  to-night?     With  her." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  shouldn't?"  crossly  responded 
Miss  Corny.     "Where  are  you  off  to  now?" 

"To  the  telegraph  office,  at  present.  To  send  for 
Lord  Mount  Severn." 

"What  good  can  he  do?" 

"None.     But  I  shall  send  for  him. " 

"Can't  one  of  the  servants  go  just  as  well  as  you? 
You  have  not  finished  your  dinner;  hardly  begun  yet. " 

He  turned  his  eyes  on  the  dinner-table  in  a  mechan- 
ical sort  of  way,  his  mind  wholly  preoccupied,  made 
some  remark  in  answer,  which  Miss  Corny  did  not 
catch,  and  went  out. 

On  his  return  his  sister  met  him  in  the  hall,  drew 
him  inside  the  nearest  room,  and  closed  the  door.  Lady  .. 
Isabel  was  dead.     Had  been  dead  about  ten  minutes. 

"She  never  spoke  after  you  left  her,  Archibald. 
There  was  a  slight  struggle  at  the  last,  a  fighting  for 
breath,  otherwise  she  went  off  quite  peacefully.  I 
felt  sure,  when  I  first  saw  her  this  afternoon,  that  she 
could  not  last  till  midnight." 

One  word  touching  that  wretched  prisoner  in  the 
condemned  cell  at  Lynneborough.     As  you  may  have 
anticipated,  the  extreme  sentence  was  not  carried  out. 
And — little  favorite  as  Sir  Francis  is  with  you  and 
with   me — we    can    but    admit    that  justice   did  not  a: 
demand  that  it  should  be.    That  he  had  wirfuTly  killed 
Hallijohn  was  certain;  but  the  act  was  committed  in  a 
moment  of  wild  rage ;  it  had  not  been  premeditated. 
The   sentence   was  commuted  to   penal  servitude  for 
life.     A  far  more  disgraceful  one  in  the  estimation  of! 
Sir  Francis — a  far  more  unwelcome  one  in  the  eyes  of, 
his  wife.      It  is  of  no  use  to  mince  the  truth.     Onej 
little  grain  of  comfort  had  penetrated  to  Lady  Levison ; 
the  anticipation  of  the  time  when  she  and  her  ill-fated 


^ 


412  EAST  LYNNE 

child  should  be  alone,  and  could  hide  themselves  in 
some  hi(Jden  nook  of  the  wide  world,  he  and  his  crime 
and  his  end,  gone — forgotten.  But  it  seems  he  was 
not  to  go  and  be  forgotten ;  she  and  the  boy  must  be 
tied  to  him  still;  and  she  was  lost  in  horror  and 
rebellion. 

That  man  envied  the  dead  Hallijohn,  as  he  looked 
forth  on  the  future.  A  cheering  prospect,  truly!  The 
gay  Sir  Francis  Levison  working  in  chains  v/ith  his 
gang!  Where  would  his  diamonds  and  his  perfumed 
handkerchiefs  and  his  white  hands  be  then?  After  a 
time  he  might  get  a  ticket  of  leave.  He  groaned  in 
agony  as  the  turnkey  suggested  it  to  him.  A  ticket 
of  leave  for  him!  Oh,  why  did  they  not  hang  him?  he 
wailed  forth,  as  he  closed  his  eyes  to  the  dim  light — 
to  the  light  of  the  cell,  you  understand ;  he  could  not 
close  them  to  the  light  of  the  future.  No,  never 
again ;  it  shone  out  all  too  plainly,  dazzling  his  brain 
as  with  a  flame  of  living  fire. 


CHAPTER  LIX 

I.    M.    V. 

Lord  Mount  Severn,  wondering  greatly  what  the 
urgent  summons  could  mean,  lost  no  time  in  obeying 
it,  and  was  at  East  Lynne  the  following  morning, 
early.  Mr.  Carlyle  was  in  his  carriage  at  the  station ; 
his  close  carriage;  and,  shut  up  in  that,  he  made  the 
communication  to  the  earl  as  they  drove  to  East 
Lynne.  ^    '  z 

The  earl  could  with  difficulty  believe  it.  Never  had 
he  been  so  utterly  astonished.  At  first  he  really  could 
not  understand  the  tale. 

"Did  she — did  she — come  back  to  your  house  to 
die?"  he  blundered.  "You  never  took  her  in?  I  don't 
comprehend." 

Mr.  Carlyle  explained  further.  And  the  earl  at 
length  understood.  But  he  could  not  recover  his  per 
plexed  astonishment. 


EAST  LYNNE  413 

"'What  a  mad  act! — to  come  back  here!  Madame 
Vine !     Hoffi_an_earth  did  she  escape  detection?" 

"She  did  escape  Tt,"  said  Mr.  Carlyle.  "The* 
strange  likeness  Madame  Vine  possessed  to  my  first  j 
wife  often  struck  me  as  being  marvelous,  but  I  never' 
suspected  the  truth.  It  was  a  likeness,  and  not  a  like-'- 
ness;  for  every  part  of  her  face  and  form  was  changed.  \ 
Except  her  eyes,  and  those  I  never  saw  but  through  \ 
disguising  glasses. " 

The  earl  wiped  his  hot  face.  The  news  had  ruffled 
him  in  no  measured  degree.  He  felt  angry  with  Isabel, 
dead  though  she  v/as,  and  thankful  that  Mrs.  Carlyle 
was  away. 

"Will  you  see  her?"  whispered  Mr.  Carlyle,  as  they 
entered  the  house. 

"Yes." 

They  went  up  to  the  death-chamber,  Mr.  Carlyle 
procuring  the  key.  Very  peaceful  she  looked  now,  her 
pale  features  composed  under  her  white  cap  and 
bands.  Miss  Carlyle  and  Joyce  had  done  all  that  was 
necessary;  nobody  else  had  been  suffered  to  approach 
her.  Lord  Mount  Severn  leaned  over  her,  tracing  the 
former  looks  of  Isabel;  and  the  likeness  grew  upon 
him  in  a  wonderful  degree. 

"What  did  she  die  of?"  he  asked. 

"She  said  a  broken  heart." 

"Ah!"  said  the  earl.  "The  wonder  is  that  it  did 
not  break  before.  Poor  thing;  poor  Isabel!"  he  added, 
touching  her  hand,  "how  she  marred  her  own  happi- 
ness!    Carlyle,  I  suppose   this  is  your  wedding  ring?" 

Mr.  Carlyle  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  ring.  "Very 
probable. ' ' 

"To  think  of  her  never  having  discarded  it!" 
remarked  the  earl,  releasing  the  cold  hand.  "Well,  I 
can  hardly  believe  the  tale  now."  He  turned  and 
quitted  the  room  as  he  spoke.  Mr.  Carlyle  looked 
steadfastly  at  the  dead  face  for  a  minute  or  two,  his 
fingers  touching  the  forehead;  but  what  his  thoughts 
or  feelings  may  have  been  none  can  tell.  Then  he 
replaced  the  sheet  over  the  face,  and  followed  the  earl. 


414  EAST  LYNNE 

They  descended  in  silence,  to  the  breakfast-room. 
Miss  Carlyle  was  seated  at  the  table  waiting  for  them. 
"Where  could  all  your  eyes  have  been?"  exclaimed 
the  earl  to  her,  after  a  few  sentences  referring  to  the 
event  had  passed. 

"Just  where  yours  would  have  been,"  retorted  Miss 
Corny,  with  a  touch  of  her  old  temper.  "You  saw 
Madame  Vine  as  well  as  we  did." 

"But  not  continuously.  Only  two  or  three  times  in 
all.  And  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen  her 
without  her  bonnet  and  veil.  That  Carlyle  should  not 
have  recognized  her  is  almost  beyond  belief." 

"It  seems  so,  to  speak  of  it,"  said  Miss  Corny;  "but 
facts  are  facts.     She  was  young,  gay,  active,  when  she 
left  here,  upright  as  a  dart,  her  dark  hair  drawn  from 
.  her  open  brow   and  flowing  on  her  neck,  her  cheeks 
like   crimson    paint,   her    face    altogether    beautiful. 
Madame  Vine   arrived   here  a  pale,  stooping  woman, 
lame  of  one  leg,  shorter  than   Lady   Isabel — and  her 
figure  stuffed  out  under  those  sacks  of  jackets.     Not  a 
bit,  scarcely,  of  her  forehead  to  be  seen,  for  gray  vel- 
vet and  gray  bands  of  hair;  her  head  smothered  under 
a  close  cap,  large  blue  double   spectacles  hiding  the 
eyes  and  their  sides,  and  the  throat  tied  up — the  chin 
partially.     The  mouth  was  entirely  altered  in  charac- 
ter,  and  that  upward  scar,   always    so    conspicuous, 
made  it  almost  ugly.     Then  she  had  lost  some  of  her 
front  teeth,  you  know,  and  she  lisped  when  she  spoke, 
f^fake  her  for  all  in  all,"  summed  up  Miss  Carlyle,  "she 
I  looked  no  more  like  the  Isabel  who  went  away  from 
I  here   than   I  do  like  Adam.      Just  get  your  dearest 
1  friend  damaged  and  disguised   as  she  was,  my  lord, 
',^nd  see  if  you'd  recognize  him." 

The  observation  came  home  to  Lord  Mount  Severn. 
■  A  gentleman  whom  he  knew  well  had  been  so  altered 
iby  a  fearful  accident  that  little  resemblance  could  be 
[traced  to  his  former  self.  In  fact,  his  own  family 
jjcould  not  recognize  him;  and  he  used  no  artificial  dis- 
!^ui*es.  It  was  a  case  in  point,  and,  reader,  I  assure 
^yoi?  that  it  is  a  true  one. 


EAST  LYNNE  415 

*'It  was  the  disguise  that  we  ought  to  have  sus- 
pected/' quietly  observed  Mr.  Carlyle.  "The  likeness 
was  not  sufficiently  striking  to  cause  suspicion." 

"But  she  turned  the  house  from  that  scent  as  soon 
as  she  came  into  it,"  struck  in  Miss  Corny.  "Telling 
of  the  'neuralgic  pains'  that  afflicted  her  head  and  face, 
rendering  the  guarding  them  from  exposure  necessary. 
Remember,  Lord  Mount  Severn,  that  the  Ducies 
had^been  with  her  in  Germany,  and  had  never  sus- 
pected her.  Remember,  also,  another  thing;  that, 
however  great  a  likeness  we  may  have  detected,  we 
could  not  and  did  not  speak  of  it  one  to  another.  Lady 
Isabel's  name  is  never  so  much  as  whispered  amongst 
us." 

"True;  all  true,"  said  the  earl. 

On  the  Friday  the  following  letter  was  dispatched 
to  Mrs.  Carlyle : 

"My  Dearest: — I  find  I  shall  not  be  able  to  get  to 
you  on  Saturday  afternoon  as  I  promised,  but  will 
leave  here  by  the  late  train  that  night.  Mind  you  don't 
sit  up  for  me.  Lord  Mount  Severn  is  here  for  a  few 
days ;  he  sends  his  regards  to  you. 

"And  now,  Barbara,  prepare  for  news  that  will 
prove  a  shock.  Madame  Vine  is  dead.  She  grew  rap- 
idly worse,  they  tell  me,  after  our  departure,  and  died 
on  Wednesday  night.     I  am  glad  you  were  away. 

"Love  from  the  children.  Lucy  and  Archie  are  still 
at  Cornelia's;  Arthur  wearing  out  Sarah's  legs  in  the 
nursery.  Ever  yours,  my  dearest, 

"Archibald  Carlyle." 

Of  course,  as  Madame  Vine,  the  governess,  died  at 
Mr.  Carlyle's  house,  he  could  not  in  courtesy  do  less 
than  follow  her  to  the  grave.  So  decided  West  Lynne, 
when  they  found  which  way  the  wind  was  going  to 
blow.  Lord  Mount  Severn  followed  also,  to  keep  him 
company,  being  on  a  visit  to  him.  And  very  polite, 
indeed,  of  his  lordship  to  do  it!  Condescending  also! 
AV«st  Lynne  remembered  another  funeral  at  which 


416  EAST  LYNNE 

these  two  had  been  the  only  mourners — that  of  the 
late  earl.  By  some  curious  coincidence,  the  French 
governess  was  buried  close  to  the  earl's  grave.  As 
good  there  as  anywhere  else,  quoth  West  Lynne;  there 
happened  to  be  a  vacant  spot  of  ground. 

The  funeral  took  place  on  the  Saturday  morning. 
A  plain,  respectable  funeral.  A  hearse  and  pair,  and 
mourning  coach  and  pair,  with  a  chariot  for  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Little.  No  pall -bearers,  or  mutes,  or  anything 
of  that  show-off  kind,  and  no  plumes  on  the  horses, 
only  on  the  hearse.  West  Lynne  looked  on  with 
approbation,  and  conjectured  that  the  governess  had 
left  sufficient  money  to  bury  herself;  but  of  course 
that  was  Mr.  Carlyle's  affair,  not  West  Lynne's. 
Quiet  enough  lay  she  in  her  last  resting-place. 

They  left  her  in  it,  the  earl  and  Mr.  Carlyle,  and 
entered  the  mourning-coach  to  be  conveyed  back 
again  to  East  Lynne. 

"Just  a  little  upright  stone  of  white  marble,  two  feet 
high  by  a  foot  and  a  half  broad,"  remarked  the  earl, 
on  the  road,  pursuing  a  topic  they  were  speaking  upon. 
"With  the  initials  1.  V.  and  the  date  of  the  year. 
Nothing  more.     What  do  you  think?" 

"1.  M.  v.,"  corrected  Mr.  Carlyle.     "Yes." 

At  that  moment  the  bells  of  another  church,  not  St. 
Jude's,  broke  out  in  a  joyous  peal,  and  the  earl  inclined 
his  ear  to  listen.  "What  can  they  be  ringing  for?"  he 
cried.  They  were  ringing  for  a  wedding.  Afy  Halli- 
john,  by  the  help  of  two  clergymen  and  six  bridesmaids 
(of  whom  you  may  be  sure  Joyce  was  not  one),  had 
just  been  converted  into  Mrs.  Joe  Jiffin.  When  Afy 
took  a  thing  in  her  head,  she  somehow  contrived  to 
carry  it  through,  and  to  bend  even  clergymen  and 
bridesmaids  to  her  will.  Mr.  Jiffin  was  blessed  at 
last. 

In  the  afternoon  the  earl  left  East  Lynne,  and  some- 
what later  Barbara  arrived.  Wilson  scarcely  gave  her 
mistress  time  to  step  into  the  house  before  her,  and 
she  very  nearly  left  the  baby  in  the  fly.  Curiously 
anxious  was  Wilson  to  hear  all  particulars,  as  to  what 


EAST  LYNNE  417 

could  have  taken  off  that  French  governess.  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  was  much  surprised  at  their  arrival. 

'*How  could  I  stay  away,  Archibald,  even  until 
Monday,  after  the  news  you  sent  me?"  said  Barbara. 
"What  did  she  die  of?  It  must  have  been  awfully 
sudden." 

"I  suppose  so,"  was  his  hungry  answer.  He  was 
debating  a  question  with  himself,  one  he  had  thought 
over  a  great  deal  since  Wednesday  night.  Should  he, 
or  should  he  not,  tell  his  wife?  He  would  have  pre- 
ferred not  to  tell  her,  and,  had  the  secret  been  con- 
fined to  his  own  breast,  he  would  decidedly  not  have 
done  so.  But  it  was  known  to  three  others;  to  Miss 
Carlyle,  to  Lord  Mount  Severn,  and  to  Joyce.  All 
trustworthy  and  of  good  intention ;  but  it  was  impossi- 
ble for  Mr.  Carlyle  to  make  sure  that  not  one  of  them 
would  ever,  through  any  chance  unpremeditated 
word,  let  the  secret  come  to  the  knowledge  of  Mrs. 
Carlyle.  That  would  not  do;  if  she  must  hear  it  at 
all,  she  must  hear  it  from  him,  and  at  once. 

*'Are  you  ill,  Archibald?"  she  asked,  noting  his  face. 
It  wore  a  pale,  worn  look.  "I  have  something  to  tell 
you,  Barbara,"  he  answered,  drawing  her  hand  into  his 
as  they  stood  together.  They  were  in  her  dressing- 
room,  where  she  was  taking  off  her  things.  "On 
Wednesday  evening,  when  I  got  home  to  dinner, 
Joyce  told  me  that  she  feared  Madame  Vine  was 
dying,  and  I  thought  it  right  to  see  her." 

"Certainly,"  returned  Barbara.     "Quite  right." 

"I  went  into  her  room,  and  I  found  that  she  was 
dying.  But  I  found  something  else,  Barbara.  She 
was  not  Madame  Vine." 

"Not  Madame  Vine!"  echoed  Barbara. 

"It  was  my  former  wife,  Isabel  Vane." 

Barbara's  face  flushed  crimson,  and  then  grew  white 
as  marble,  and  she  drew  her  hand  from  Mr.  Carlyle's. 
He  did  not  appear  to  notice  the  movement,  but  stood 
with  his  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece,  while  he  talked, 
giving  her  a  rapid  summary  of  the  interview;  not  its 
details. 

27  Juynne 


418  EAST  LYNNE 

*'She  could  not  stay  away  from  her  children,  she 
said,  and  came  back  as  Madame  Vine.  What  with 
the  effects  of  the  railway  accident  in  France,  and 
those  spectacles  she  wore,  and  her  style  of  dress,  and 
her  gray  hair,  she  felt  secure  in  not  being  recognized. 
I  am  astonished  now  that  she  was  not  discovered. 
Were  such  a  thing  related  to  me  1  should  refuse  cred- 
ence to  it." 

■Rj^rhpra'?^  hp'^rt  felt  f^int  with  its  utter  sickness,  and 
she  turned  her  face  from  the  view  of  her  husband. 
Her  first  confused  thoughts  were  as  Mr.  Carlyle's  had 
been — that  she  had  been  living  in  his  house  with 
another  wife.  "Did  you  suspect  her?"  she  breathed,  in  a 
low  tone.  "Barbara!  Had  I  suspected  it,  should  I  have 
allowed  it  to  go  on?  She  implored  my  forgiveness  for 
the  past,  and  for  having  returned  here ;  and  I  forgave 
her  fully.  I  went  to  West  Lynne  to  telegraph  for 
Mount  Severn.  She  was  dead  when  I  came  back. 
She  said  her  heart  was  broken.  Barbara,  we  cannot 
wonder  at  it." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mr.  Carlyle  began  to  perceive 
that  his  wife's  faco  was  hidden  from  him.  Still  there 
was  no  reply.  Mr.  Carlyle  took  his  arm  from  the 
mantelpiece,  and  moved  so  that  he  could  see  her  coun- 
tenance ;  a  wan  countenance  then  telling  of  pain. 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder  and  made  her 
look  at  him.     "My  dearest,  what  is  this?" 

"Oh,  Archibald!"  she  uttered,  clasping  her  hands 
together,  all  her  pent-up  feelings  bursting  forth,  and 
the  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes,  "has  this  taken 
your  love  from  me?"  He  took  both  her  hands  in  one 
of  his,  he  put  the  other  around  her  waist  and  held  her 
there  before  him,  never  speaking,  only  looking  gravely 
into  her  face.  Who  could  look  at  its  sincere  truthful- 
ness, at  the  sweet  expression  of  his  lips,  and  doubt 
him?    Not  Barbara. 

'*I  had  thought  my  wife  possessed  entire  trust 
in  me." 

"Oh,  I  do,  I  do;  you  know  I  do.  Forgive  me,  Archi- 
bald," she  softly  whispered.     "I  deemed  it  better  to 


EAST  LYNNE  419 

impart  this  to  you,  Barbara.  My  darling,  I  have  told 
it  you  in  love."  She  was  leaning  on  his  breast, 
sobbing  gently,  her  repentant  face  turned  toward  him. 
He  held  her  there  in  his  strong  protection,  his  endur- 
ing tenderness. 

"My  wife!  my  darling!  now,  and  always." 

"It  was  a  foolish  feeling  to  cross  my  heart,  Archi- 
bald.    It  is  done  with,  and  gone." 

"Never  let  it  come  back  again,  Barbara.  Neither 
need  her  name  be  m^entioned  again  between  us.  A 
barred  name  it  has  hitherto  been;  let  it  so  continue." 

"Anything  you  will.  My  earniest  wish  is  to  please 
you;  to  be  worthy  of  your  esteem  and  love,  Archi- 
bald," she  timidly  added,  her  eyelids  drooping  as  she 
made  the  confession,  while  the  color  rose  in  her  fair 
face;  "there  has  been  a  feeling  in  my  heart  against 
your  children,  a  sort  of  jealous  feeling — can  you  under- 
stand?— because  they  were  hers;  because  she  had  once 
been  your  wife.  I  knew  how  wrong  it  was,  and  I 
have  tried  earnestly  to  subdue  it.  I  have,  indeed,  and 
I  think  it  is  nearly  gone.  I" — her  voice  sunk  lower — 
"constantly  pray  to  be  helped  to  do  it;  to  love  them 
and  care  for  them,  as  if  they  were  my  own.  It  will 
corne  wich  time.'" 

"Every  good  thing  will  come  with  time  that  we  \ 
earnestly  seek,"    saia   Mr.    Cariyie.      ''Oh,    Baroara, 
never  forget — never  forget  that  the  only  way  to  insure  j 
peace  in  the  end,  is  to  strive  always  to  be  doing  right, ;  h 
unselfishly,  under  God." 

THE  END 


We  are  the  Sole  Publishers  of  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox^s  Books 

The  Poetical  and  Fro^e  Works  of 

ELLA    WtlEELER    WILCOX 

Mrs.  Wilcox's  writings  have  been  the  inspiration  of  many  young 
men  and  women.  Her  hopeful,  practical,  masterful  views  of  life 
give  the  reader  new  courage  in  the  very  reading  and  are  a  wholesome 
spur  to  flagging  effort.  Words  of  truth  so  vital  that  they  live  in  the 
reader's  memory  and  cause  him  to  think— to  his  own  betterment  and 
the  lasting  improvement  of  his  own  work  in  the  world,  in  whatever 
line  it  lies— flow  from  this  talented  woman's  pen. 

MAURINE 

Is  a  love  story  told  in  exquisite  verse.  "An  ideal  poem  about 
as  true  and  lovable  a  woman  as  ever  poet  created."  It  has 
repeatedly  been  compared  with  Owen  Meredith's  Lucile.  In 
point  of  human  interest  it  excels  that  noted  story. 

"Maurine  "  is  issued  in  an  edition  de  luxe,  where  the  more 
important  incidents  of  the  story  are  portrayed  by  means  of 
photographic  studies  from  life. 

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POEMS  OF  POWER. 

New  and  rev!?'?:!  -"'•■*>'^"  TViic?  v.^^Mfifni  vr>lnme  contains 
more  than  one  hundred  new  poems,  displaying  this  popular  poet's 
well-known  taste,  cultivation,  and  originality.  The  author 
says:  "The  final  word  in  the  title  of  the  volume  refers  to  the 
Divine  power  in  every  human  being,  the  recognition  of  which 
is  the  secret  of  all  success  and  happiness.  It  is  this  idea  which 
many  of  the  verses  endeavor  to  inculcate  and  to  illustrate. 

"The  lines  of  Mrs.  Wilcox  show  both  sweetness  and 
strength."— CA?V'«i'<9  American.  "Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  has  a 
strong  grip  upon  ;he  affections  of  thousands  all  over  the 
world.  Her  productions  are  read  to-day  just  as  eagerly  as 
they  were  when  her  fame  was  new.  no  other  divinity  having 
yet  risen  to  take  her  lA^c^."— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

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THREE  WOMEN,    a  story  in  verse. 

"Three  Women  is  the  best  thing  I  have  ever  done."— Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox. 

This  marvelous  dramatic  poem  will  compel  instant  praise 
"because  it  touches  every  note  in  the  scale  of  human  emotion, 
it  is  intensely  interesting,  and  will  be  read  with  sincere  relish 
and  admiration. 

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PCEA1S  OF  T^LEASURE. 

Many  of  the  best  poetic  creations  of  Ella  Vv^heeler  V/ilcox 
are  to  be  found  in  this  charn-iing  collection.  Besides  many 
admirable  specimens  of  romantic  verse,   there  are  several 

f)oems  of  rare  beauty,  dealing  with  every-day  topics.    Every 
ine  of  these  poems  pulsates  v,'ith  life  and  throbs  with  emollcn. 

"Mrs.  Wilcox  is  an  artist  with  a  touch  that  reminds  one 
of  Byron's  impassionate  strains."— Paris  Register. 

"Everything  that  she  writes  has  the  mark  of  her  unique, 
powerful  personality  impressed  upon  it.  and  this  volume  will 
not  be  a  disappointment  to  those  acquainted  with  her."— iV^ew 
York  Press. 

"The  book  is  replete  with  good  things  and.  though  a  book 
of  fewer  than  two  hundred  pages,  it  is  worth  whole  reams  of 
the  sentimentalism  flourishing  under  the  misnomer  of  liter- 
ature. ' ' —  Western  Bookseller. 

"Mrs.  Wilcox  takes  her  raptures  with  a  full  heart,  revel- 
ing in  blisses  and  draining  sorrows  deeply;  not  morbidiy  but 
liopefully.  Skeptic  as  she  is  of  all  formal  creeds,  she  does 
■T)ot  become  cynical  or  pessimistic,  but  makes  a  glad  religion 
-^ut  of  evolution  and  human  fellowship."— aVi?i0  York  Daily 
I^eivs. 

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POEf/sS  OF  P(^SS10N. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  is  known  as  the  greatest  living  poet 
of  passion.  To  her  the  human  heart  seems  to  have  revealed 
its  mysteries,  for  she  has  the  power  to  picture  love  in  all  its 
moods  and  variations  as  no  other  has  done  since  Byron. 

"Only  a  woman  of  genius  could  produce  such  a  remark- 
able v^ory^."— Illustrated  London  News. 

Beside  many  others,  there  are  some  fifty  poems  which 
treat  entirely  of  that  emotion  which  has  been  denominated 
"the  grand  passion"— love.  Among  the  most  popular  poems 
in  the  book  are  Delilah,  Ad  Finem,  Conversio?7,  and  Communism. 
These  vibrant  poems  have  attained  a  reputation  fhat  is  above 
^;nd  beyond  criticism. 

"Her  name  is  a  household  word.  Her  great  power  lies  in 
depicting  human  emotions;  and  in  handling  that  grandest  of 
all  passions— love,  she  wields  the  pen  of  a  master. "Saturday 
Record. 

Many  thousands  of  the  book  have  been  issued  in  the  plain 
edition.  The  author's  numerous  admirers  called  for  a  de  luxe 
impression,  and  in  the  New  Illustrated  Edition  the  demand 
is  met  by  a 

8EALTIFULLY FRODVCED  AND  CHARMimLY EMBELLISHED  ED/T/Oh 

certain  to  satisfy  the  most  fastidious  taste.     In  its  new  form, 
the  book  is  sure  to  find  additional  favor. 

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EVERY-DAY  THOUGHTS~In  Prose 
and  Verse. 

Her  latest,  largest  and  greatest  prose  work.  This  brilliant 
work  consists  of  a  series  of  forceful,  logical  and  fascinating 
"talks"  to  every  member  of  the  household,  in  which  the 
author  fearlessly,  but  with  delicacy,  discusses  every-day  sub- 
jects, and  directs  attention  to  those  evils  which  menace  the 
peace  and  safety  of  the  home.  "Every-day  Thoughts"  is  not  a 
mere  book  of  advice,  neither  does  it  attempt  to  preach,  but  it 
contains  more  good  counsel  and  v/holesome  moral  lessons 
than  are  to  be  found  in  the  average  sermon. 

"These  thoughts,  lofty  and  uplifting,  are  stated  with  viril- 
ity, both  in  prose  and  verse.  The  noble  sentiments  expressed 
in  this  volume  will  widen  the  circle  of  her  didm\vevs."—2ioches' 
ter  Times. 

"Fev.'  people  are  so  good  as  not  to  be  made  better  by  a  stu- 
dious perusal  of  this  useful  and  iotercsting  booK,  which  is.  in 
brief,  a  short  and  vigorous  dissertaUoo  oo  rooral  cooduct  and  the 
springs  of  right  living.  Mrs.  Wilcox's  latest  publication  is  a 
worthy  additioo  to  the  best  works  of  moral  philosophy  and  her 
treatise  deserves  wide  reading."— AVzi/  York  Daily  News. 

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KINGDOM  OF  LOVE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

A  Ttagnificent  colkction  of  poems  suitable  for  recitations  andrea^^ 
Ings,  true  to  the  very  best  there  is  in  human  nature. 

In  the  preface  to  this  collection,  the  author  says:  "I  am 
constantly  urged  by  readers  and  impersonators  to  furnish 
them  with  verses  for  recitation.  In  response  to  this  ever- 
increasing  demand,  I  haVe  selected  for  this  volume  the  poems 
which  seem  suitable  for  such  a  purpose.  In  making  my  col- 
lection of  them.  I  have  been  obliged  to  use,  not  those  which 
are  among  my  best  efforts  in  a  literary  or  artistic  sense,  but 
those  which  contain  the  best  dramatic  possibilities  for  profes- 
sionals." 

"Her  fame  has  reached  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  her  pop- 
ularity seems  to  grow  with  each  succeeding  yQdiV."— American 
Bookseller. 

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AN  AMBITIOUS  MAN— Prose. 

A  realistic  novel  of  the  modern  school  of  fiction.  Although 
the  plot  borders  on  the  sensational,  the  motive  of  the  story  is 
a  good  one.  It  teaches  that  hereditary  tendencies  can  be 
overcome;  that  one  can  conquer  passion  and  impulse  by  the 
use  of  the  divine  inheritance  of  Will,  and  compel  public  re- 
spect by  lofty  ideals;  in  other  words,  that  one  may  rise  on  the 
"stepping-stones  of  a  dead  self  to  higher  things."  Ivlrs.  Wilcox 
is  a  successtul  novel-writer  as  well  as  a  poet,  and  this  story  is 
another  evidence  of  her  wide  range  of  thought.  "In  'An 
Ambitious  Man'  the  central  figure  is  a  woman,  who  becomes 
cha-itened  through  suffering  and  purified  through  sin." 

"Vivid  realism  stands  forth  from  every  page  of  this  fasci- 
nating and  interesting  boo^."— Every  Day. 
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AN  ERRING  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

There  is  always  a  fascination  in  Mrs.  Wi4cox's  verse,  but 
in  these  beautiful  examples  of  her  genius  she  shows  a  wonder* 
ful  knowledge  of  the  human  heart. 

"Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  has  impressed  many  thousands  of 
people  with  the  extreme  beauty  of  her  philosophy  and  the 
exceeding  usefulness  of  her  point  of  wie-w."~Boston  Globe. 

"Mrs.  Wilcox  stands  at  the  head  of  feminine  writers,  and 
her  verses  and  essays  are  more  widely  copied  and  read  than 
those  of  any  other  American  literary  woman." — New  Yor." 
World.  "Power  and  pathos  characterize  this  magnificeni 
poem.  A  deep  understanding  of  life  and  an  intense  sympath^r 
are  beautifully  expressed."— C/zzVczjS'l?  Tribune. 

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MEN,  WOMEN  AND  EMOTIONS. 

A  skilful  analysis  of  social  habits,  customs  and  follies.    A 

common-sense  view  of  life  from  its  varied  standpoints full 

of  sage  advice. 

"These  essays  tend  to  meet  difficulties  that  arise  in  almost 

every  life Full  of  sound  and  helpful  admonition,  and  is 

sure  to  assist  in  smoothing  the  rough  ways  of  life  wherever  it 
be  read  and  heeded." — Pittsburg  Times. 

12mo,  heavy  enameled  jpaoer $0.50 

Presentation  Edition,  dark  brown  cloth 1.00 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  LAND  OF  NOD. 

A  collection  of  poems,  songs,  stories,  and  allegories dealingr 
with  child  life.  The  work  is  profusely  illustrated  with  dainty 
line  engravings  and  photographs  from  life. 

"The  delight  of  the  nursery;  the  foremost  baby's  book  in 
the  world." — N.  O.  Picayune. 
Quarto,  sage  green  cloth $1.00 

AROUND  THE  YEAR  WITH 
ELLA  V/HEELER  WILCOX 

A  Birthday  Book  Compiled  from  the 
Poetical  and  Prose  Writings  of 
Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 

The  many  admirers  of  Mrs.  Wilcox  will  welcome  this  vo!» 
time  with  genuine  enthusiasm.  It  epitomizes  her  inspiring 
optimistic  philosophy  with  an  apposite  Quotation  for  every 
day  in  the  circling  year. 

The  book  is  a  small  quarto  in  size,  beautifully  printed  on 
excellent  paper  with  red-line  borders,  and  handsomely  bouna 
in  cloth,  with  exquisite  half-tone  illustrations  prefacing  eacS» 
month,  and  with  author's  portrait. 

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Autograph  Edition,  full  leather,  gold  top 3.00 


W.  B.  CONKEY  COlViPANY,  Hammond,  IsmI- 


UNT^^^  T  TFT?  ' 


I 
LOAN!  DCPT 


